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Love in Idleness. 


A SUMMER STORY. 



PHILADELPHIA 
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & 
1877. 

fh 


co. 



I 




Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1876, by 
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 


\ 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 

IF-A-IR/T X. 


CHAPTER I. 

M AURICE LAYTON’S wedding- 
day was fixed for the twenty-fifth 
of June, and had he been the most im- 
passioned of lovers — which we cannot 
aver to have been the case — he could 
scdjfcely have looked forward to it with 
a more eager impatience or found the 
passage of the intervening weeks more 
tedious and slow. He had made up his 
mind to be utterly at leisure at the time 
of his marriage, and had despatched his 
business and concluded his arrangements 
for an idle summer as soon as Congress 
adjourned : the result was, that by the 
middle of May he had nothing in the 
world to do, and experienced the em- 
barrassment a general might feel at the 
head of an invading army who has burn- 
ed his boats behind him, yet finds it im- 
possible to advance into the new country. 
Maurice was imperious in temper and res- 
olute by habit, and in no lesser matter 
would have brooked such delay uncom- 
plainingly ; but he could hardly expect 
that Rosamond would hasten her wed- 
ding-day by a month because he found 
the interval wearisome. Besides, the 
mind of Miss Clifford was always fixed 
in serene conclusions, and Maurice was 
not apt to disturb the equanimity of their 
intercourse by any extravagant requests. 
He spent a week in the solitude of his 
home, and, in spite of his glowing pros- 
pects, grew every day more profoundly 
discouraged and out of humor with him- 
self. He went back to Washington, and 
was so frequently congratulated on his 
happiness that he began to believe his 
depression to be the result of his ardor, 
which forbade his finding any enjoyment 
away from his bride. Elated at this idea, 
he rushed impetuously to The Oaklands 
and found Rosamond immersed in occu- 
pation. The house was filled with guests 
as usual, and shy longing bridesmaids 
"stared Maurice out of countenance : he 
was appealed to as umpire in questions 
of taste and elegant detail ; the wedding 


was openly discussed before him, and he 
was treated like a disinterested referee 
or an unimportant participant. He had 
affirmed for years that he had no illusions, 
yet now he suffered disenchantment, and 
besides being supremely bored, he felt 
that he was losing his powers of mind in 
this crisis and speaking and acting like 
an idiot. He began to wonder what had 
induced him to think of being married at 
all, and told himself unaffectedly that 
if he had anticipated such penalties he 
would have accepted lifelong bachelor- 
hood with rapture. Such reflections, how- 
ever, were unprofitable, not to say mor- 
bid, for a man on the eve of marriage, 
and he felt it his duty to dismiss them. 
Just at this juncture he received a letter 
from his brother Frank, and without de- 
lay set off to pay him a day’s visit, for 
even if the dear fellow were living at sixes 
and sevens in an unfurnished house, it 
was at least something in the way of ac- 
tivity to look him up and discover why 
on earth he was settling down in New 
England. 

These two brothers regarded each other 
with an affection of peculiar tenderness, 
and if they did not see each other fre- 
quently, it was only because they had 
long since grown into the habit of living 
apart. They had been orphaned as mere 
lads, and a difference of seven years in 
their ages had separated them in educa- 
tion. Subsequent changes had thrown 
them still further asunder. Maurice’s 
patrimony had been swept away in a 
financial crisis, and at eight and twenty 
he had set to work to make his own liv- 
ing, while Frank’s property had accumu- 
lated through the agency of successful 
investments and a long minority into 
what became, shortly after he took it 
into his own hands, a great fortune. 

The elder brother had been for twelve 
or thirteen years a lawyer of some celeb- 
rity, but of late he had quite merged his 
profession in politics, and was now fast 
winning a place among the most distin- 


4 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


guished statesmen of his day. He was 
but forty-three, and his party were look- 
ing to him as their future leader, since 
he had already demonstrated masterful 
abilities — sagacity in counsel, a quick 
grasp and sure comprehension of details, 
above all, a fervid and commanding elo- 
quence which seemed to spring from a 
complete self-surrender, but to exercise 
the control of an absolute will over its 
hearers. 

The younger brother, on the other 
hand, had done nothing to distinguish 
himself, alhough he had had means, 
time and apparent opportunity to do a 
great deal. He had lived more in Eu- 
rope than in the United States, and in a 
certain way was cosmopolitan enough to 
be indifferent to languages, climates or 
peoples so long as he found what he 
wanted in a country or city. What he 
wanted was so much a matter of interest 
to his numerous friends that considerable 
curiosity was wasted on the matter, and 
as much research as was compatible with 
a fine reserve on his part. He was known 
to be very fond of all the arts and a gen- 
erous patron of artists whom he approved ; 
he was acknowledged to be a good judge 
of pictures, and some of his marbles did 
him great credit; he was an indefatiga- 
ble purchaser of bric-a-brac, and a con- 
noisseur in all matters which related to 
the elegancies rather than the sublimities 
of life. Yet, although the things in which 
he was found most excellent had no mor- 
al grandeur about them, there was a sort 
of ideal perfection in his life which im- 
pressed those who knew him best. He 
was the simplest man alive both in hab- 
its and modes of thought, and ostenta- 
tion was as unknown to him as a certain 
relish of individual luxury for which he 
had utterly missed the taste, and the lack 
of which left him regarding life from a 
serious, attentive stand-point, as if he 
were seeking to find out thp reason of it. 
He would have been thought an unlike- 
ly man to be still at thirty-six an irre- 
sponsible bachelor; yet, however suc- 
cessful he had hitherto been as a society- 
man, his name had not even been asso- 
ciated with that of any marriageable wo- 
man as her possible suitor. Thus, when 


he had suddenly announced the fact of 
his having purchased a small place in 
Saintford, a Connecticut village lying on 
Long Island Sound, his friends were not 
backward in suggesting reasons for his 
settling down. 

Maurice’s journey from The Oaklands 
to Saintford was uneventful enough, and 
it was three o’clock on a fine afternoon 
when he arrived and presented himself, 
after due inquiries, at the gate opening 
upon a pretty place where stood a gray 
stone cottage, its gables and bay - win- 
dows quite embowered by an unpruned 
luxuriance of roses and wisterias. Very 
fine old trees were scattered about the 
grounds singly and in groups, and be- 
yond the terrace Maurice could see 
half a dozen men laying out a garden. 
Among them he discovered Frank, and 
at once strode across the spongy turf 
toward him ; for his brother, spade in 
hand and wearing an air of hearty en- 
terprise and domestic usefulness, was a 
phenomenon to stare at. Accordingly, 
Maurice stared, then burst out laughing. 
“Good Heavens!’’ he exclaimed, “what 
an example of virtue !” 

Frank flung down his spade. “I’ll 
leave off at once,’’ he said: “I never 
intend to set any examples. How are 
you, Maurice ? I’m glad to see you. I 
feel like a beauty discovered at her toilet. 
I intended to have my place in perfect 
order before you came to spy out the 
land. But never mind : I really think 
I need not be ashamed of its nakedness. 
You can’t guess how delightful it is to 
have my own vine and fig tree at last.” 

“On my word,” exclaimed Maurice, 
“it’s a remarkably pretty place, with the 
budding vines and the fine trees. It is 
a village for trees, I perceive. In fact, 
I have seen nothing else except green 
grass : there are evidently no people 
here.” 

He bent a keen look on his brother, 
who answered it with a smile, and at 
once began a description of the salient 
features of Saintford in general and his 
own modest estate in particular. When 
he had purchased it in February it was 
lying under eighteen inches of snow and 
ice, and he had experienced some of the 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


5 


felicity of the survivors of the Deluge 
in watching the dry land appear. The 
house had been built ten years, but had 
never been occupied until now, for its 
original owner had died just as it was 
completed, leaving his affairs deeply 
involved, and the cottage was at once 
offered for sale, but at so high a figure 
that it remained in the market until 
Frank Layton cheerfully bid the thou- 
sands which brought it into his own pos- 
session. The subject once in hand, he 
grew eloquent about his plans, and led 
Maurice from one end of his enclosure to 
the other, descanting upon the turf, the 
shrubberies, the walks, the arbors and the 
trellises. He was evidently in a happy 
mood, and Maurice could not help sus- 
pecting there was some reason for it over 
and above his delight in his new posses- 
sions and his pleasure in receiving his 
well-beloved brother. 

“ 4 Satis beatus unciis Sabinus,’ ” quoted 
the elder as Frank paused. “You were 
always a good deal of an Horatian in 
your philosophy. I really think you are 
making the most of your grounds, but 
Saintford is too flat and tame to admit 
of anything like landscape gardening. 
Why did you not buy on the North River, 
or in some locality where Nature would 
have yielded you some splendid re- 
sults ?” 

“ Because,” returned Frank, laughing, 
“I wanted to buy in Saintford, and as 
we don’t have waterfalls and volcanoes, 
I have decided that I am indifferent to 
scenery.” 

“ Oh, you have friends here ?” 

“Only some new acquaintances — no 
friends.” 

‘‘Look here, Frank, are you going to 
be married ?” 

“Some time, I hope, but not at pres- 
ent. No, I assure you, Maurice,” pur- 
sued Frank more gravely, ‘ there is noth- 
ing of that sort going on. That I have 
a private reason for settling down here I 
admit to you, but to no one else. I will 
tell you about it after dinner. In the 
mean time, I have not asked you about 
Miss Clifford. I have had my innings 
in our talk, and now I shall give you a 
chance. Talk on, rhapsodize, indulge 


in all the sweet follies of a lover, and 
I’ll listen attentively and grudge you 
nothing.” 

Maurice looked grim. “ I don’t know,” 
said he, “that I have anything in partic- 
ular to say. Miss Clifford is well, we are 
to be married on the twenty-fifth of June, 
and I suppose that I am the happiest of 
men.” 

Their eyes met and they both laughed. 
They were standing at the foot of the 
grounds, with a fine bit of turf before 
them, and the three dogs who had fol- 
lowed them about were rolling over and 
over each other at their feet. There was a 
huge Newfoundland over whom a dain- 
ty King Charles was tyrannizing, and a 
languid greyhound who put his slender 
paw into- the game whenever the fun ap- 
peared to be slackening. Maurice sud- 
denly started them up eager and alert 
with a word, set them running round 
and round after each other in great cir- 
cles, and finally flung himself on the 
grass and allowed them to scramble over 
him, licking his face and tumbling his 
hair. 

“That reminds me of old times, Mau- 
rice,” observed Frank. “But you at 
least are as young- as ever.” 

“Oh, I play youth at times, and when 
I am at Oaklands with Clifford and Judge 
Herbert we do everything except stand- 
ing on our heads. Those two old men 
would keep me boyish even if my youth 
were a spent torch. But at most times 
I feel the solemn responsibilities of my 
forty -three years. Who, to look at us 
both, would think there were but seven 
years between our ages ? You seem 
about twenty-five.” 

“ Nonsense !” 

“ Oh, but you do.” 

Maurice was right enough when he 
declared that his face had little of that 
indefinable stamp of youth which still 
set its seal upon Frank. And there was 
reason enough for it, since he had always 
possessed too ardent and complex a tem- 
perament to remain long unworn by life. 
He was a tall, powerfully-built man, with 
a fine face, whose habitual expression in 
repose was abstracted and dreamy, and 
when he was aroused his large long gray 


6 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


eyes were too piercing to allow their 
glance to be altogether pleasing. But 
under certain influences there shone 
from those eyes a sort of glow which 
kindled where it fell, and made his com- 
panion believe him one of the handsom- 
est of men. Frank all his life had felt 
for his brother a love almost passing the 
love of woman. There were circum- 
stances in their past which knit them 
more closely together than other kins- 
men, and when he exclaimed that he 
was reminded of old times their mem- 
ories both reverted to the early days, of 
which, although we cannot review them 
in detail, we may at least give the reader 
a hint. 

The father of Maurice and Frank Lay- 
ton had been a prominent statesman in 
the earlier part of the century, and dur- 
ing a mission to England had married 
there and brought his wife back to Wash- 
ington. There was a great disparity in 
the ages of the two, but he was no ordi- 
nary man, and knew himself an object 
of the highest affection which sanctifies 
married life. His career was soon over, 
for Maurice was but ten when his father 
died. The widow took her two sons to 
a place they owned by the sea, and here 
she lived quietly with them until Maurice 
went to college. Just as he was about 
to graduate she died, and from being of 
all lads in the world the happiest, gay- 
est, most blest, they were suddenly the 
most wretched. Maurice came home to 
kiss his mother’s cold face, but hurried 
back to deliver his valedictory, because 
she had begged Frank with her latest 
breath to urge him to do it. Then he re- 
turned to the seaside house, and the two 
boys went on for a time in the familiar 
domestic routine which made them both 
suffer exquisite tortures. They morbidly 
retained every little household appurten- 
ance as their mother had left it when she 
was stricken down. The piano was open, 
and her music-book turned to her favor- 
ite sonata. Her thimble and scissors lay 
on a bit of cambric on the work-table, 
and a vase beside them containing the 
withered flowers Frank had brought her 
on that last morning. These 'two un- 
happy boys felt like two children left out- 


side the sunshiny place where their mates 
were playing. 

It was Frank now who remembered 
that time the best. For Maurice it had 
for many years been a recollection to 
shrink from, a paralyzing Medusa face 
which struck him dead. But the young- 
er brother could think of a night in that 
far-away time, twenty -four years ago, 
when, after listening anxiously for hours 
to hear Maurice come to bed, he had 
stolen down and found the young man 
stretched face downward on the lounge 
in the dim parlor, his face buried in the 
folds of a little white shawl that his moth- 
er had left there. 

“Maurice,” cried poor little shivering 
Frank, “mamma would not like you to 
behave like that. Perhaps she is here 
now, and grieving that you are not more 
brave.” 

The young man started up. “Oh, if 
she were here!” he cried, the veins in 
his forehead swelling into cords as he 
leaned forward gazing into vacancy?, as 
if striving to see beyond vision — “if she 
were only here ! If she could touch me 
once — put her head on my shoulder — kiss 
me ! I dream of her so sometimes,” he 
added, his voice breaking while he cov- 
ered his face with his hands. “ Last night 
what woke me up and sent me out of 
doors was that the moment I slept I seem- 
ed to feel the pressure of her cheek against 
mine.” 

Frank clung to his knees. 

“ I cannot help it : who could help 
it?” pursued Maurice with frightful vehe- 
mence. “ I see her figure before me all 
the time, eternally beckoning — then, 
when I start forward, eternally vanish- 
ing. O God ! why did she die ? What 
else had I ? She loved me — she thought 
of me always. Everything here reminds 
me of her. Look !” and springing up he 
staggered over to the work-table and laid 
a trembling hand on the little crumple of 
cambric which was growing yellow just 
there where his mother had thrown it 
down. “She was working my name on 
this handkerchief. When I saw the let- 
ters there, I tell you it went through me 
like a knife.” 

Frank was but thirteen years old at 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


7 


this time, but he taught Maurice after a 
while that life goes on, and that the inex- 
orable grave, which swallows up so much, 
does not yet hinder the survivors from 
making their little schemes of life and find- 
ing enjoyment. Maurice went abroad to 
complete his education at Oxford in com- 
pliance with his mother’s wish, and after- 
ward he traveled widely. He often re- 
marked of those years that they were full 
of recollections he abhorred, because he 
had committed so many follies ; but those 
who knew him best knew too that some- 
thing within him let him have no rest, 
but tortured, urged, pushed him on into 
that state of mind which means excite- 
ment, experience at any cost. He was 
far enough from being happy, and found 
his motives and actions both mean and 
miserable. When, therefore, his prop- 
erty, which was still in the hands of the 
trustees of the estate, was lost at a time 
when the securest fortunes were swept 
away, the event was his salvation. He 
came home and went to work, with the 
results already mentioned. There were 
such strong contrasts in his character 
and in his history that his brother had 
always regarded him with wonder, and 
when he spoke or looked in the old way 
every chord of memory was swiftly touch- 
ed, and all the old story of their boyhood 
and youth passed through his mind. 

When the new proprietor had done the 
honors of his grounds the brothers went 
into the house to dinner. The conversa- 
tion would have lagged if Frank had not 
been a delightful host, for Maurice seem- 
ed abstracted and gave but a divided at- 
tention. There was a completeness of 
detail about the house which attracted 
him, and he found himself admiring 
the silver and crystal, the carvings and 
quaint tiles of a Dutch sideboard, the 
painted panels of the walls and doors. 
But Frank needed no one’s help. He 
had lived alone for two months, and had 
wit and suggestion enough to amuse a 
whole roomful. Maurice thought again 
within himself that his brother must have 
experienced some .sort of joyful success 
to be in such good spirits. 

On leaving the table they made a sur- 
vey of the rooms, which were filled with 


works of art and objets de vertu. Frank 
had traveled and resided in Europe so 
many years that his mere chance pur- 
chases when brought together were al- 
most enough to furnish a house. The 
parlors were rococo in the extreme, and 
filled with bric-a-brac, and it was with a 
sensation of relief, when they entered the 
library and sat down before the wood- 
fire, that Maurice observed there was no- 
thing frailer than bronze in the room, 
and that everything was so substantial 
he could throw himself about at pleasure. 

“ I never was a man to dance on eggs,” 
said he. “ I admire your faience, but 
pottery and porcelain fill me with shiv- 
erings and shudderings. You have a 
bijou of a house. I could not help think- 
ing, however, all through dinner, of the 
difference between us in spite of our 
strong family resemblance. In all my 
travels I don’t remember that I ever 
picked up anything to show for them, 
except my poor old Venus.” 

“ You see,” returned Frank with a 
shrug, ‘‘I had nothing better to do. I 
never thought of making a collection, for 
as a rule I hate collections : they bore me. 
But I had money in my pocket, and when 
I came across a thing I liked I bought it 
and sent it over to Graham. But I con- 
fess I had no idea that I had gathered 
such an amount of trumpery until he sent 
it to- me a month ago.” 

“I suppose you’re quite a rich man ?” 

“ Yes, I have more thani I ever spend. 
I’m saving up for some worthy purpose 
or other, I suppose. It will be neces- 
sary for me to build a hospital when I 
find the right opportunity, just to save 
my selfcrespect Meanwhile, Maurice, 
as I have told you a thousand times, 
half my income is yours.” 

“I know your generosity, my dear fel- 
low, and love you for it, but in fact I 
have no need of it. To be sure, I have 
resigned my profession and have nothing 
but my salary, but my wife’s fortune will 
be something prodigious. You see there 
are but two children now, and Clifford is 
almost a capitalist. In fact, Frank, I’m 
really making a most fortunate marriage. 
Clifford’s position in the cabinet, his pres- 
tige, his enormous wealth, besides his 


8 


LOVE IN IDLENESS . 


regard for me, all ensure my continued 
success.” 

‘‘And success is dear to you ?” 

“ Very dear,” returned Maurice briefly, 
with an indescribable flash of his eye. 

“ But you seem to have given up pri- 
vate life and renounced private interests.” 

“ I never hear the suggestion of private 
life without a distinct mental impression 
of a dull, disheveled woman, noisy chil- 
dren and vilely-cooked dinners.” 

“ Does Miss Clifford share your ideas ?” 

‘‘I presume so: she knows my views, 
at all events, and in fact has lived so 
constantly before the w r orld that she has 
a scanty conception of what a quiet fire- 
side life is. By the way, Frank, how did 
you like her? You’re always so hazy 
in the expression of your opinions that 
I rarely get a glimpse of your convic- 
tions. You saw her quite frequently late 
winter.” 

Frank was opening his cigar case: 
“ She commands admiration, Maurice : I 
admire her. I think her very clever too, 
besides being a very stylish woman.” 

“ I suspect,” said Maurice thoughtful- 
ly, ‘‘that she is not attractive.” 

‘‘She has certainly proved attractive 
to you ; and, candidly, I think her calm- 
ness, her total want of coquetry, her nice 
discrimination in all social matters, just 
suit her for the position of your wife. 
Where would you be if, with all your 
occupations, you were obliged to dance 
attendance upon a little flirt who made 
eyes at every man she met, and with 
whom every male creature felt it his 
business to fall in love a little ?” 

“ Do you suppose I would marry a wo- 
man of that kind — like Violet Meredith, 
for instance ? No : I have not lacked 
common sense in my choice. Yes, you 
have hit my case to a nicety. Rosamond 
is fine-looking, but not too beautiful ; re- 
fined, without being too sensitive ; intel- 
ligent, but very quiet and reserved, as 
the wife of a public man requires to be. 
Then, too, she likes me and believes in 
me, yet is not sufficiently in love to ham- 
per me with small feminine tyrannies.” 

Frank burst out laughing. “On my 
word !” he exclaimed, “you take your 
position coolly. I only wonder that with 


such reasonable views you ever gained 
sufficient impetus to carry you to her 
feet.” 

“ I am forty-three years old,” returned 
Maurice with a humorous glance, “and 
Rosamond is at least thirty, and we don’t 
do those picturesque things — like going 
on one’s knees, for instance. Besides, 
I don’t believe many men go into en- 
gagements with their eyes open. They 
drift with the tide, and suddenly find 
themselves stranded above high-water 
mark. Certainly, I never dreamed of 
offering myself to Miss Clifford until 
Judge Herbert asked me one night if I 
were not thinking of marrying her. Ten 
minutes after I was sitting beside her at 
dinner, and his question haunted me. 
She was intelligent and sympathetic, and 
alluded to a speech I had just made on 
a bill before the Senate in a way that 
flattered me to the finger-tips. I went 
back to my rooms, and before I slept 
dashed off a hasty note to her offering 
her my hand ; but when I woke up next 
morning my inspiration had passed, and 
I decided to burn the billet and not pur- 
sue the matter. Fate, however, had in- 
terfered in the shape of Perkins, who had 
found the letter, and sealed, addressed 
and despatched it, as soon as he went to 
my writing-table.” 

And Maurice laughed in a way that 
induced one to conclude that he had no 
quarrel with either Fate or Perkins. 

“I don’t believe Miss Clifford ever 
heard the true state of the case,” put 
in Frank slyly. 

“ Most certainly not. The moment I 
knew that she was in possession of my 
note I was in a state of feverish suspense. 
Clifford gave a state dinner that night, 
and I sat beside her through the inter- 
minable courses, and did not get a look 
or word from her. You know what an 
impatient fellow I am, and I finally com- 
pelled her attention. ‘ Miss Clifford,’ said 
I, fixing my eyes full upon her, ‘ I really 
am in need of one little word from you in 
relation to that little arrangement.’ She 
did not flinch, but even smiled slightly. 
‘ Papa has my answer,’ she returned ; and 
I knew that I was accepted. Will you 
believe it ? — it was a full week latev 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


9 


before I had an opportunity to see her 
alone.” 

‘‘Well, you have had no lack of op- 
portunities to make love since in all 
these eighteen months,” observed Frank 
thoughtfully ; ‘‘but I suspect that you are 
not a believer in love or in the sweet fool- 
eries of lovers.” 

Maurice jumped up and strode about. 
‘‘Oh, I believe in love fast enough,” said 
he in a sarcastic voice. “ Most men are 
pliant enough to opportunity when it 
comes at the right season. Twenty 
years ago I was young, ardent and in- 
quisitive : at that time — But I have 
never used the cant phrases current 
among men regarding women ; for after 
all our expressions of contempt and in- 
difference to ideal affection, each man 
ends by being the dupe of his own im- 
agination, and believes that a happiness 
exists for him which is denied to others. 
I am more consistent : candidly, I do 
not adore women, and in marrying I am 
merely doing the best I can do for my- 
self, besides obeying the instinct which 
perpetuates society by inducing a man 
to beget a son to take his place in the 
world. With you, perhaps — probably, 
indeed— love would be a religion. With 
me it would always be a temptation : I 
should go mad and kiss away kingdoms 
and provinces. And I prefer kingdoms 
and provinces to the kisses of a sweet 
silly creature who might spoil my life.” 

They were both silent for a time, until 
Maurice grew tired of striding about, and 
sitting down again stretched out his long 
limbs toward the blaze. 

‘‘But you,” he said presently in a dif- 
ferent voice and with a light laugh — ‘‘you 
have leisure for that sort of thing. I 
wonder you don’t go in for it.” 

Luigi, Frank’s Italian servant, brought 
in coffee, which the two men took in si- 
lence, then removing the cups he put the 
evening papers on the table within reach 
of Maurice’s hand, which was immedi- 
ately extended toward them. 

“ I’m sorry those papers are so attrac- 
tive,” said Frank, ‘‘for I was just about 
to tell you why I came to Saintford.” 

‘‘The papers may wait. Rosamond 
says she always knows her real rival — 


that she has quite given up trying to in- 
terest me if a newspaper is at hand — but 
there is no question about it now : I’m as 
curious as a woman to find out your se- 
cret. Who is she ?” 

‘‘Oh, what a wise man ! I dare say I 
shall bore you.” 

But Maurice had no dread of being 
bored, and settled himself in his chair in 
an attitude of attention, fixing his eyes 
on his brother, who stared into the fire. 

‘‘Do you remember,” Frank began at 
once, “ of my writing to you twelve months 
ago that I had joined an expedition to 
visit Japan ? then of my suddenly re- 
nouncing all my plans ? Well, the rea- 
son of it was that I saw a young girl who 
interested me so deeply that I was anxious 
to remain and follow up my slender clew 
— not to turn my back upon a chance of 
happiness such as I had begun to believe 
did not exist for me. I was anxious to 
marry years ago : I could never under- 
stand why I was not more inclined to 
fall in love. All at once the reason was 
not far to seek. Here at length I saw 
the glow of dawn — the beginning of my 
day, still enveloped in darkness and mys- 
tery, but marked by gleams which I ac- 
cept as premonitions of a happy future. 
You see, Maurice, that I am a believer 
in love.” 

‘‘Yes. For Heaven’s sake, go on !” 

‘‘Well, one evening in Paris I attend- 
ed a soiree where the principal feature 
of the entertainment was music. I was 
unable to gain a glimpse of one of the 
performers, who pleased me by render- 
ing some of Chopin’s most brilliant com- 
positions ; so I skirted the crowd about 
the piano, and finally found a place in a 
sort of alcove finished up as a boudoir, 
where by peering through lace curtains 
I could look into the salon. But the 
player was a long-haired Bohemian, at 
whom there was no pleasure in staring 
as he tossed his hair as a pony does his 
mane, and made himself more hideous 
than the music was sweet; and I was 
about to retreat when suddenly a deli- 
cate gloved hand rested like a feather 
on my sleeve, and looking down I saw 
that a young girl of remarkable beauty 
stood beside me. She had evidently 


IO 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


taken my arm by mistake and supposed 
me to be some familiar friend, for she 
did not once look up, but was intent on 
the musician until he ceased and began 
rubbing his hands and stretching his 
knuckles before he started upon a new 
fantasia. All this time the girl’s flower- 
crowned head touched my shoulder, and 
she poured a delightful stream of non- 
sense into my ears, which only ceased 
at a sudden movement on the part of 
the crowd. In another jnoment I had 
lost her, and saw her presently in the 
salon on the arm of an elderly gentle- 
man. I sought everywhere for my host- 
ess to ask the name of the young lady 
and the privilege of an introduction. I 
learned her name, but she had already 
left the rooms. She was Mademoiselle 
de Clairmont, and the gentleman was 
her uncle, a savant of some reputation 
— Mr. Knight. 

44 1 am not too easily pleased, but how 
my fancy was suddenly taken possession 
of without any profound cause. I found 
myself wandering about absent and mel- 
ancholy. Three days after, in the Louvre, 
I Came upon Mis| Clairmont again. She 
was with the same old gentleman, but 
this time a fair-faced woman of middle 
age completed the party. Nothing hap- 
pened, although my own mental impres- 
sion was distinct and forcible enough. 
Without seeming to follow her, I easily 
managed to keep near, her, and once 
when a little bunch of violets dropped 
from her belt I had the pleasure of pick- 
ing them up. She accepted them with 
a slight blush and the regular jeune-fille 
air of French girls, and her uncle look- 
ed at me sharply with a frigid eye. But 
I kept them in sight, and was fortunate 
enough to point them out to a friend of 
mine among the police whose vanity it 
was to know the name and position of 
every well-to-do stranger in Paris. He 
informed me at once that they were Mr. 
and Mrs. Knight, country-people of my 
own, and that the young lady was Made- 
moiselle de Clairmont, the niece of Mrs. 
Knight, and by her father’s family re- 
lated to the De Clairmonts of Vaucluse. 
This explanation was a good deal to me. 
I at once decided that it was within my 


power to meet this young girl, woo her, 
and win her if I could. Judge of my 
chagrin when, on following them to Eng- 
land, I found that they were settled at 
Richmond on account of Miss Clair- 
mont’s engagement to Ralph Wylde !” 

“She was engaged to Cousin Ralph 
Wylde — to that consummate prig ? Well, 
she did not marry him. I remember 
Aunt Agnes wrote me something about 
the affair. What did you do under those 
circumstances ?” 

“ Called myself a fool for my pains,” 
rejoined Frank, “and joined a party for 
salmon-fishing in Norway.” 

“You did not try to see her, captivate 
her, carry her off from Ralph ?” 

44 No : the prowess of Lochinvar is 
not in my line. If she were engaged 
to Ralph, I had good reason to suppose 
she was in love with him. I don’t know 
that I am more modest than other men, 
but I have had no cause to believe that 
my attractions would outbalance those 
of even Ralph, whom I never thought 
a good fellow. No, I did not strike one 
blow for myself, but ran away for my 
life. What was a wild dream might 
become a dangerous reality if I were to 
meet her and see her intimately. But, 
Maurice, the stars fought for me in their 
courses. Instead of marrying Ralph in 
October, she broke with him and return- 
ed to this country with Mr. and Mrs. 
Knight. I do not yet know the circum- 
stances of the case : Aunt Agnes was 
somehow mixed up in it, and quarreled 
with both Laura and Ralph Wylde in 
consequence. Violet wrote me that 4 Fe- 
lise had sowed the wind and ridden off 
on the whirlwind.’ ” 

“Who is Felise, Frank ?” 

“Oh, Miss Clairmont;” and Frank 
colored like a girl. 

“And this Mademoiselle Felise de 
Clairmont is at present settled down in 
Saintford ?” 

4 Your guess is correct. Mrs. Knight 
is a native of the place, and has a house 
here. I have called on Mr. Knight with 
letters of introduction, and am invited 
there to dinner to-morrow.” 

“Have you seen Miss Clairmont?” 

“No, not yet.” 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


II 


“It is now twelve months since you 
fell in love with her?” 

“Twelve months since I handed her 
the violets she had dropped in the 
Louvre.” 

“ Well, you have lived on a sadly 
meagre entertainment so far. By the 
bye, is she remarkably pretty?” 

“ She is a blonde with dark eyes — no 
common beauty.” 

“ I should judge not,” returned Maurice 
dryly, “from her power over you. One 
does not become intoxicated on milk 
and water.” 

The two men were suddenly silent. 
Frank was a trifle ill at ease from having 
parted with a secret he had^barely con- 
fessed to his own heart, Maurice felt for 
him a sympathy which he did not usual- 
ly grant to confessions of a similar na- 
ture, but both looked listless and indiffer- 
ent, and the one lit the cigar with which 
he had been toying for the last hour, and 
the other drew his chair closer to the 
reading-table and opened the evening 
papers. But Maurice’s mind was not on 
the news, and he continually put back 
his head, closed his eyes and lost him- 
self in reverie from which he would 
emerge impatiently with unbent lips and 
a heightened color. Finally, he jumped 
up, ran his hand through his hair and 
with his back to the fire faced his brother. 

“ It would never do for me to live in 
Saintford,” said he, laughing slightly : 
“the life is too stimulating to the imag- 
ination and the senses. I find myself 
building air-castles like a school-girl over 
her bread and butter. I was trying to 
imagine what it would be to come here 
and find Mrs. Francis Layton sitting in 
that low velvet chair beside you./' But 
I’ll be hanged, Frank, if—” 

“I beg of you to go on,” rejoined 
Frank, well pleased with such a cheerful 
view of his prospects. 

“ I believe,” said Maurice, closing his 
eyes and speaking slowly in a sleepy 
voice, “that I thought of her as my wife^ 
all the time.” 

“Ah,” remarked Frank superbly, “I 
hope the dream was pleasant.” 

“ Passing sweet. Give me the papers 
and I will put it behind me — this too en- 


chanting vision. Well, success to you, 
Frank ! No wonder you are in such in- 
fernal good spirits. But all the same, I 
would rather go to the devil at any time 
than fall in love as you have done.” 


<Z_ 


CHAPTER II. 


It was oh another tranquil May af- 
ternoon that Miss Clairmont ran down 
the steps of a large old country-house 
and sfcood waiting on the curbstone with 
her aunt for the carriage and pony to 
come round. Mrs. Knight was a sweet 
majestic woman of forty or more, always 
gracious and statuesque, who never said 
anything in particular, yet was always 
considered one of the most brilliant of 
woihen. Her niece clung to her con- 
fidingly, and talked to her incessantly 
in a loAy/Clear voice with a vague foreign 
accent, with frequent little trills of laugh- 
ter, and in spite of the difference in their 
ages they seemed almost like sisters. Mrs. 
Knight was childless, and the daughter 
of her only sister had filled a large place 
in her somewhat lonely life during the 
past six years. Felise would have been 
warmly loved in any event, but as she 
was, to tell the truth, an irresistibly pleas- 
ing girl, she was idolized by both aunt 
and uncle. 

The general features of the young 
girl’s appearance were a tall slender fig- 
ure of remarkable grac’e ; a face the com- 
plex character of whose beauty perplex- 
ed those who studied her from its con- 
trast of a warm sunny smile and dark 
eyes full of yearning and easily suggest- 
ive of melancholy; a manner which was 
always impressed with sweetness, and was 
apt to express a dread of displeasing ; and 
a voice of such charm that it sometimes 
seemed the most powerful of all her at- 
tractions^ But after seeing her often one 
>liged to confess that the real salient 
Ants of her personality were not so eas- 
ily to be discovered. She showed many 
varieties of demeanor and aspects of cha- 
racter — a sweet seriousness at times, and 
a continuous archness at others, while 
every mood was pervaded by French 
sparkle and grace. 


12 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


The pony appeared presently, and she 
sprang into the low carriage, adjusted her 
blankets and wraps, and called her grey- 
hound to the seat beside her. 

“And you might come too, Aunt Lau- 
ra,” she said, her flexible lips touched 
with regret, “if it were not for this hor- 
rible Mr. Layton.” 

“Oh, Felise, I do not believe he is so 
horrible.” 

“ But he must be. Uncle is charmed 
with him, and uncle is charmed with no 
one who does not suffocate me with his 
talk of ‘ drift ’ and ‘ glacial periods.’ ” 

She laughed and drove down the short 
avenue, and soon reached the village 
street. Now, in all the world there is 
nowhere so pretty a village street as in 
Saintford, and Felise felt no meagre en- 
joyment at the sight of the splendid 
colonnade of trees on either hand, the 
young leaves covering the branches with- 
out hiding them, their pale green infused 
with sunshine. Here and there' were 
graceful willow trees in whose blossoms 
the bees hummed incessantly. Felise 
seemed to remember everything — the 
tender springing grass, the stately elms, 
the buzzing of the innumerable bees, the 
bloomy vistas of apple-blossoms and the j 
blue line of the sea. For she had been i 
born here, and had stayed quite long 
enough, she felt, to allow her childish eyes 
and ears to gather a thousand memories 
of the old place. Everything pleased 
her — the tranquil village street, the cows 
grazing here and there, even the glimpse 
she had of two old men in the distance 
who had crawled out into the sunshine to 
talk over vanished spring-times. 

“ I shall be very quiet and very happy 
here,” said Felise to herself with that pro- 
found wisdom which characterizes the 
young after they have a grain of experi- 
ence. “ I shall have only aunt and un- 
cle to care about and to care about me : 
henceforth I shall be one of those women 
who have no history.” 

For, even although Felise had known 
somewhat of life, it had as yet made too 
little impression upon her to allow her to 
feel anxiety or to burden her with mem- 
ories which pursued her. Men had loved 
her and wanted to marry her, and it may 


be she had put imperishable wishes into 
wild hearts ; but she had hitherto been 
like a child, and had experienced noth- 
ing but shame and vexation that her lov- 
ers had rather a troublesome time with 
their feelings, and had repeatedly open- 
ed her large eyes in profound surprise at 
the puerility of men. 

She drove down the long street which 
led to the Sound, and she could see the 
water on the one hand and on the other 
the iridescent lights upon the awakening 
woods. And here she happened to come 
upon a pair of lovers sauntering along the 
path : the man at other times might be 
clownish enough, but was now instinct 
with feeling all over, while the girl was 
tender and rosy as a Psyche in this first 
flush of passion. It was the May Day of 
their lives, and no wonder if they seem- 
ed fair as the afternoon, and completed 
the picture which the sunshine and blue 
seas and the violets along the wood-path 
all suggested. It was completely in the 
nature of Felise to identify herself with 
her surroundings, and she stopped and 
begged the lovers to pick her some of 
the pale wood-blossoms ; and she thank- 
ed the man so exquisitely when he pull- 
j ed her a handful of violets that her smile 
i and the sweetness of her voice were to 
give him a sense of loss hereafter, and to 
shadow for many a day the happiness he 
had felt in gaining the girl beside him. 

Felise drove home with her flowers, 
and put them in her dress before she 
went down to dinner. She said within 
herself that a year ago Ralph Wylde 
was pulling sweeter violets than these 
for her, and that now the ocean rolled 
between them ; and as this was the last 
thought which Felise was to give to her 
last year’s lover, we will chronicle it, for 
it inspired the tender grace of the smile 
which she wore when she went into the 
parlor and was seized by her uncle and 
introduced to Mr. Frank Layton. 

Frank met her bravely enough, and 
not one of the three to whom he talked 
indifferently and fluently until dinner was 
announced had any idea that anything es- 
pecial was happening. * But here at last 
he was sitting opposite the girl who had 
made an ineffaceable impression on him 


LOVE IN IDLENESS . 


13 


without her receiving any intimation of 
his existence. He was devoured by cu- 
r osity concerning her — hungry to look 
into her face, of which he had dreamed 
so long — to listen to her voice; but it 
was necessary to follow Mr. Knight’s 
conversation, and to treat Mrs. Knight 
with that deference which is to middle- 
aged matrons what devotion is to girl- 
hood. Yet all the time he felt an intense 
consciousness that his torturing conflict 
of the ideal and real was over — that not 
only doubts had vanished, but any frag- 
ment of dilemma. Not only did ideal- 
ism die a natural death, but he dated 
his thought of Felise henceforth from 
this moment of meeting, and his infat- 
uation in the past seemed fantastic and 
illusory. Here was something so much 
better than a dream — a young girl, only 
divided from him by the width of the 
dinner-table, who possessed more than 
the beauty which he had coveted at first 
sight, addressing him frankly, and look- 
ing at him with some of the candid pleas- 
ure with which Miranda surveyed Ferdi- 
nand. For he was a delightful surprise 
to her: she had heard of him through 
his English cousins, the Merediths and 
Wyldes, until she knew his traits by 
heart, and now could not imagine how 
he happened to be settled in Saintford. 
Mr. Knight wasted no curiosity upon 
trivial matters, and unquestioningly ac- 
cepted Frank as a neighbor without sus- 
pecting any reason out of the common 
order of things. He was a bright-eyed, 
listless-looking man of sixty, rather worn 
with his lifelong work, but still eager- 
ly interested in the widest range of the 
world’s high energies, and when he found 
a worthy listener a most endless talker. 
Frank was in so generous a mood that 
his sympathies expanded wide enough 
to take in pre-historic ages, and his. ready 
apprehension and good-natured tolerance 
lured his host into trotting out all his fa- 
vorite hobbies. The ladies bore it for a 
while with faces of comic dismay : stu- 
dents in later life are apt to consider the 
world athirst for information, but Mrs. 
Knight at least had learned how to in- 
terrupt her husband and bring him back 
to trivialities. 


“Now, Mr. Knight,” she said, “Felise 
and I object to so many facts, and we 
will not listen to any more. — We like 
theorizing so much better, Mr. Layton.” 

“No woman can abide details,” re- 
marked Mr. Knight, turning back to his 
dinner with a sigh. “She can never re- 
alize that all the real work of the world 
has been achieved by the men who have 
a vision so microscopic that they positive- 
ly burrow into the minutest particulars. 
My wife would like to have me never 
speak of science in public, but would 
perhaps allow me to sit in my library 
every morning, and with a gold pen in 
my hand and tinted paper before me con- 
struct theories which tally with her sen- 
timental and theological views.” 

“The trouble with a scientific man,” 
retorted Mrs. Knight, “is, that there is 
nothing complete about his ideas : his 
mind is full of confused thoughts, which 
he must talk over and over until they 
develop into something a little more ad- 
vanced and a little more abstruse. We 
want distinct and fixed opinions upon 
which we may settle down comfortably 
and consider the subject finished.” 

“The fact is> Mr. Layton,” said Mr. 
Knight, laughing, “the kind of man wo- 
men believe in is a noisy, fluent, unscru- 
pulous dogmatizer. You are not, I pre- 
sume, a married man ?” 

Frank disclaimed any such experience. 

“ I am not sure that it is fair, then, for 
me to tell you anything about the sex,” 
said Mr. Knight, “ since their characters 
belong, for you, to the region of unex- 
plored phenomena.” 

“But I am in the mood to compass a 
wider knowledge of women,” returned 
Frank, “and should like to make all 
sorts of discoveries. Now, you are in a 
position to give me many new ideas.” 

“That is true enough. I have been 
married twenty-two years, and can preach 
by the book. It does seem a pity that 
the experience of the pioneers can be of 
use to no one where marriage is con- 
cerned, for, in this matter, beyond all 
others, by the time one’s absolute know- 
ledge amounts to anything, one is so 
deeply committed that it is impossible 
to go back.” 


14 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


“Now this becomes interesting,” said 
Mrs. Knight. “Whether Mr. Layton 
needs your advice or not, I want you to 
go on.” 

Mr. Knight put back his head, closed 
his eyes and revolved the subject in his 
mind; then looked at his wife, nodded 
and began. /“ I should assert it not as an 
opinion, but as an incontrovertible fact,” 
said he, “that there is nowhere such a 
shrinkage in value as in the dreams a 
man indulges in before his wedding-day./ 
He sipped his wine thoughtfullv, with a 
smile lurking around the corners of his 
mouth. “I was far from being young 
when I met my Laura,” he pursued, “but 
nevertheless for some time after I saw her 
I was in a state of glamour. It appeared to 
me that my future happiness depended on 
tho touch of slim satiny hands, the sweep 
of golden curls, the bewildering changes 
of silken toilettes of shimmering radi- 
ance, each breathing perfumes, the oc- 
casional glimpses of little feet, and the 
glances of eyes which I was never self- 
possessed enough to discover the color 
of in those days, and thought them blue 
of heaven’s own hue, when all the time 
they were green — yes, Laura, green. 
Well, that period of illusion, Mr. Layton, 
was twenty -two years ago, and now to 
golden hair and eyes of heavenly azure 
I am quite indifferent ; the rustle of a silk 
dress irritates me ; I care only for the 
qualities which are intrinsically precious, 
and which lose nothing by the hand of 
time and show the same in every light.” 

“The union of kindred souls — ” sug- 
gested Frank. 

“ Nothing of the sort, my dear sir. All 
the souls I have had a glimpse of are re- 
markably individual, and defy any fus- 
ing process. No, Mr. Layton, the color 
fades out of a woman’s cheek even if she 
has the witchery of a Marie Stuart, and 
the touch of the softest hand becomes an 
every-day affair remarkably soon. But 
there is a positive immortality, for in- 
stance, in the faculty of ordering a dinner 
— in an intelligent view of the propriety 
of suiting meals to the exigencies of man, 
and not making man suit himself to 
meals. These qualities of mind exist 
long after the roses of youth have van- 


ished and the sheen has faded from the 
golden hair. Similarly, a woman’s do- 
ting belief in her husband may graceful- 
ly increase with years, and time teaches 
her the art of flattering his weaknesses 
judiciously. She may also play his fa- 
vorite music all her life, read aloud to 
him and copy his illegible manuscripts 
which he cannot himself decipher. She 
may prompt his memory of clever anec- 
dotes at the right time, and enable him 
to shine in conversation without trouble : 
she can entertain the people who bore 
him while he smokes his cigar in peace, 
never forgetting to impress all the world 
with the fact of his towering intellect, 
and, besides all this, that at the same 
time he is simply the most irresistibly 
agreeable man in the universe.” 

“Find me such a wife, Mr. Knight!” 
cried Frank enthusiastically. “I have 
always wanted more than I possess, and 
now I discover what it was I wanted.” 

“ I know of only one such woman,” said 
Mr. Knight, drinking his wife’s health. 
“ But I began with very indifferent mate- 
rial : I assure you it’s all in the training.” 

Mrs. Knight answered him with some 
badinage, and Frank turned his eyes to- 
ward Felise, who was listening to every 
one with a smile. 

“ I wonder,” said he simply, “how you 
are going to like Saintford, Miss Clair- 
mont?” 

He told her of his summer plans. His 
aunt, Mrs. Meredith, and his cousin Vio- 
let were coming over for his brother’s 
wedding, and would be at his cottage 
early in June. 

“There seems to be some magic,” she 
cried. 

“ Some magic — how ?” 

“I thought I had left everything be- 
hind me in England,” said she. M I be- 
lieved that I was going to be so stupid, so 
middle-aged now, and here come Violet 
and Mrs. Meredith, who always bring me 
events ! Since you are the magician, you 
must manage your spirits, Mr. Layton.” 

“Oh,” he exclaimed, “there is noth- 
ing occult about me. And if some magic 
is drawing all the spirits of the vasty deep 
to Saintford this summer, I am not to be 
held responsible for it. I have my own 


LOVE IN IDLENESS . 


15 


ideas as to who the necromancer is. So 
you have been to drive to-day ? Did you 
go to the woods ? Those are wild violets 
you are wearing. Down in my flower- 
beds there are double English ones, some 
of which I shall send you to-morrow.” 

Felise put her hand to the little knot 
on her breast with a pretty gesture, and 
told him about the lovers she had met, 
the pretty picture they had made, and 
the request she made of them. 

‘‘It was tfc'Njpale lover who picked 
you the violets,” suggested her uncle 
with an experienced air. “Every wo- 
man must compel every man she meets 
to be her slave, if only for a moment. 
The balance of power is well kept be- 
tween the sexes : Michael Angelo with 
the last colors for his fresco drying on 
his brush probably found a high pleasure 
in picking up Vittoria Colorina’s hand- 
kerchief. This little girl has enjoyed 
honors almost as great, Mr. Layton.” 

Frank’s manner was eloquent enough 
as he followed Felise from the table. In 
fact, with less disenchantment than falls 
to the lot of many — for most of the god- 
desses we pursue turn to clouds when 
we grasp them — he had decided that his 
chase over two continents was now well 
rewarded when he saw Felise within his 
reach. 


CHAPTER m. 

Mrs. Meredith to Frank Layton. 

Park Lane, London, 27 April. 

Yours reached me yesterday, my dear- 
est Frank. It was very droll. Cromley 
had just been here asking if you were 
not to be in town for his wedding, and I 
had assured him that you must have had 
enough of the States by this time, and 
were without doubt on your way back to 
England, when, directly he had gone, 
your letter was brought to me. ... So 
you are settling down in the country 
in the neighborhood of Miss Clairmont ? 
And you give me such droll accounts of 
your experiences as a housekeeper : you 
tell me of Maurice’s plans, and congratu- 
late me on Violet’s prospects. Finally, 
you inquire incidentally about the cir- 


cumstances of Miss Clairmont’s engage- 
ment to Ralph, and the causes of its sud- 
den rupture. It is only a noble-hearted 
young man who would cheer his vene- 
rable aunt with such a delightful epistle, 
and I might reply by telling you about 
my new poodle and the tricks Leslie has 
taught him for me, the fogs which are 
enlivening this April morning with their 
chameleon hues, Lady Alice’s presenta- 
tion and other gossip of the first Draw- 
ing-room ; but I hate to tease so dear a 
fellow, and accordingly will answer the 
spirit, not the words, of your letter. 

For of cours^I was quite well aware 
a year ago that you were in love with 
Felise Clairmont. You men are so droll 
with your little efforts at disguise ! Just 
as if we did not know everything ! Be- 
sides, I like bot^you and Felise, and do 
not begrudge her my nephew. I only 
hope that you may speed in your wooing, 
and not some months hence emerge 
from your acquaintance with her a sadder 
and a wiser man. 

Ralph met her at Nice two years ago. 
She went on into Italy, and he rushed 
home and informed his sisters that he 
was about to marry. Laura considered 
herself almost engaged to Lord Palliser, 
and Georgy has been promised to my 
poor boy Hubert ever since she was fif- 
teen ; but yet they were terribly upset by 
Ralph’s news, and thought it a scandal 
for a Wylde to choose a penniless girl 
whom nobody knew anything about, half 
French and half American. But he as- 
serted himself nobly, declared that he 
was the head of his family, master of 
his own actions, and that it suited him to 
raise this kneeling Esther and make a 
queen of her. Then, after subduing his 
womenkind, he followed Miss Clermont 
to Florence, offered himself, and was re - 
fused ! But Ralph is always persistent, 
and did not lose heart. He said that she 
was very young, very capricious, and 
scarcely knew her own mind. Of course 
no woman with her eyes open could re- 
fuse him ! He was wiser than I expect- 
ed, and the next spring he met her just 
as she reached England on her way to 
Liverpool to sail for the States, and she 
accepted him. Her uncle accordingly 


i6 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


postponed his voyage and took a house 
at Richmond for six months, and we saw 
the family constantly during the season. 

I never quite understood Felise at that 
time. She did not care for Ralph, yet 
seemed a good little thing, and had prom- 
ised to marry him in October. She was 
laughing, coquettish, disdainful, all in a 
breath : he was all fondness, bewilder- 
ment and jealousy. A man like Ralph 
is sure to be a despot or a slave, and she 
took pains to keep him on his knees. I 
have his own word for it : he never even 
kissed her forehead during their acquaint- 
ance, and had barely touched her hand 
with his lips. Her French breeding had 
something to do with it, and he respect- 
ed her scruples, as he called them — nev- 
er saw her , alone, and was, in short, put 
through a course of training which might 
in time have transformed him into some- 
thing less British and tiresome. 

Laura and Georgy were delighted with 
her, and when they went down to their 
place in August she accompanied the 
girls for a month’s visit. Her wedding- 
day was fixed for early in October, and 
her dresses were coming over from Paris. 
My little,place in Devonshire was vacant 
just then, and Violet and I ran down for 
a few weeks before we went to Scotland, 
for Violet had taken wonderfully to Fe- 
lise, and could not see enough of her. We 
were only separated from the Wyldes 
by the length of the park, and saw each 
other constantly. In short, a modern 
Arcadia of five women and one man was 
perfecting itself when suddenly came the 
transformation-scene, by which all the ac- 
tors were shifted into new and startling 
combinations. 

Hubert came back from the East, and 
I wro£ to him begging him to come 
down to Dudley and conclude his ar- 
rangements for his marriage, already so 
long postponed by his ambition to out- 
travel the Wandering Jew. He had been 
sufficiently in love with Georgy two years 
before, and by this time I expected his 
passion would have grown into romantic 
fervor. It was a most admirable match 
for him : he needs her money, for she has 
a clear eight thousand a year in her own 
right ; she is pretty, and if dull and in- 


sipid, it is only that Laura has trained 
her into that cold passivity which is so 
little calculated to fire a lover. But I 
told Hubert that she was just the girl to 
make him an excellent wife, and he came 
down and promised me to make his en- 
gagement certain at once. 

He arrived just in time to join us as 
we were going across to Dudley to lunch. 
It was the sweetest day, and the Wyldes 
were all on the terrace : Georgy greet- 
ed Hubert with radiant blushes, and the 
affair promised a delicious conclusion. 
Felise was not visible, and when I in- 
quired for her they led us toward the 
house, and going up the steps we saw 
her sitting in one of the open French 
windows reading. She looked up as we 
approached, her arms crossed oh the sill : 
she was dressed in pale blue, and the 
full light shone on her fair hair and ex- 
quisite face, and they stood out in won- 
derful relief from their setting of ruby- 
colored velvet curtains. Nothing but 
her supreme beauty could excuse Hu- 
bert’s fascination. I saw the color go to 
his forehead and settle there. I knew 
the sign, and was prepared for all that 
followed. Georgy prattled away to him 
all through lunch about the absurdities 
of their Anglican curate, and her trouble, 
in getting the books she wanted down 
from Mudie’s, and he stared all the time 
at the girl opposite him. Afterward Fe- 
lise sang: you know, perhaps, by this 
time, that she can sing so as to draw the 
angels out. of heaven to hear her. Hu- 
bert, whose passion for music is more 
absolute even than his passion for beauty, 
went mad on the spot, and showed such 
a frenzy of feeling that Georgy burst into 
tears and left the room, poor girl ! Vio- 
let and I took our infatuated idiot back 
to our own house as quickly as possible. 
There were no bounds to his devotion to 
Miss Clairmont, whom he wanted to mar- 
ry on the spot. He glared at Ralph as 
we came away, and as soon as we were 
in the carriage poured his admiration 
for Felise into our unwilling ears. I 
listened in silence, and the moment we 
reached home I rang the bell and told 
Graves to pack Mr. Hubert’s things at 
once, and to have the dog-cart at the 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


door in twenty minutes, as he was to 
take the five-o’clock train up to London. 
Hubert dared not disobey me, but went 
off in a towering rage and joined a yacht- 
ing-party bound for Stornoway. I wrote 
a little note to Laura Wylde after my 
boy had gone, and told her that he had 
been sentimental enough to consider him- 
self a rose while Miss Clairmont played 
the part of nightingale. Georgy was 
quite heartbroken, and Ralph was des- 
perately angry, and for the first time 
showed Felise what a bad temper lies 
under his grand manners. But Laura 
took Felise’s part, as well as she might, 
for the poor little girl had been quite in? 
nocent of any coquetry in her manner 
with Hubert, and had good-naturedly 
sung song after song to him to lighten 
the dullness which pervaded the party. 

Just at this time Mr. Meredith came 
home from his German baths for a 
month’s visit, and, as you may under- 
stand, dreading nothing so much as a 
family party, he brought Lord Palliser 
down with him to ward off ennui. This 
quite reinstated us with the Wyldes, 
for Laura had been looking for an offer 
from his lordship for more than a year. 
You must know Palliser, my dear Frank. 
He is almost sixty, and as hideous as 
a Puritan’s idea of Mephistopheles, but 
with the manners of an angel and a 
delightful voice, which utters in the 
gentlest, most deliberate way the wit- 
tiest and wickedest things you ever lis- 
tened to. He has always laughed at 
the idea of marriage until of late, since 
the death of his only nephew, he has 
seen the necessity of providing an heir 
to his name, as otherwise the title lapses 
at his death. Every one recommended 
Laura to him : she is of good family, of 
suitable age and frightfully rich. Hence, 
when he jumped at the chance of com- 
ing down to my little place, when he 
might have gone to the best country- 
houses in the three kingdoms, we told 
each other at once that dear Laura’s pros- 
pects were assured. I quite admired 
my disinterestedness in allowing these 
love-affairs to go on under my eyes, for 
nobody but a passee belle knows how 
“sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is’’ to 
2 


17 

have the men about one offering them- 
selves to other women. 

Lord Palliser came at five o’clock, and 
the Wyldes dined with us at eight. Lau- 
ra looked a viscountess every inch of 
her — cold, elegant, awful . Georgy re- 
minded me of Ophelia after her drown- 
ing. Felise was in rose-color, and had 
never been so pretty. Lord Palliser sat 
between me and Laura, but looked at 
Felise all the time we were at table, and 
as soon as he came into the drawing- 
room went to her at once. Ralph turn- 
ed so sulky and disagreeable at this that 
I broke up the naughty little flirtation in 
the corner by asking Felise to sing. I 
wish you could have heard that hideous 
old lord humming love-songs in the hall 
after she had gone home. 

“ Good-night !” said I, lighting my can- 
dle and starting to go up stairs. “ I shall 
hear of your serenading, I have no doubt, 
Lord Palliser, after all this practice.’’ 

He came and leaned over the balus- 
ters. “By Jove!” he exclaimed under 
his breath, “ I believe I’ve gone out of 
my mind. I want to marry a woman 
whom I have seen to-night. I could love 
her like a boy.” 

“Why, of course you could, and of 
course you will,” said I. “You had bet- 
ter offer yourself to-morrow.” 

“ To-morrow ?” he cried. “ Oh, you’re 
joking. That’s too soon.” 

“ The sooner the better. ‘ Nice customs 
curtsey to great kings.’ ” 

“That is so,” said he, wagging his 
ugly old head, “ but there is a beautiful 
queen in the case here.” 

He walked up and down, and seemed 
at fever-heat, and quite disregarded Mr. 
Meredith’s demand that he should join 
him in the smoking-room. “ Gad ! -Low 
she sang it !” he cried, and hummed one 
of Felise’s songs in his broken old voice 
all the time I was on my way to my own 
room. I had a headache next day, and 
did not come down until evening, when 
I fell a victim to the injustice of my fam- 
ily. Mr. Meredith positively would not 
speak to me, and Violet put on airs of 
the most ridiculous virtue. As for Lord 
Palliser, he had gone. It seemed that 
I had misunderstood his meaning, and 


i8 


LOVE IN IDLENESS . 


thus misled him. He had been speak- 
ing of Felise instead of poor dear Laura, 
and had gone over to Dudley that morn- 
ing, asked for Miss Clairmont and beg- 
ged her to go walking with him in the 
park. Felise had refused, and he had 
sought Laura and told her of his admi- 
ration for the young girl, my approval of 
his suit, and his hopes of her co-operation. 

I have never to this day heard the 
particulars of the storm which burst over 
Dudley. I have never met any of them 
since, for they fully believe that it was 
malice instead of absent - mindedness 
which prevented my mentioning Ralph’s 
engagement to my lord, and are inexor- 
able in consequence. But Violet told me 
of Ralph’s furious anger at his fiancee’s 
second unlucky conquest, and of some 
of the insults he heaped upon her. Fe- 
lise of course broke the engagement at 
once : her uncle came for her and they 
went on the Continent for six weeks. 
Ralph followed her there as soon as his 
anger had cooled, and tried in vain to 
induce her to give him another trial, but 
it was of no use. She was at no loss for 
opportunities of settling in England if 
she had wished, for Hubert rushed back 
from the Hebrides at the news of her 
freedom, and Lord Palliser followed her 
to Biarritz. 

She wrote to me before she sailed for 
America. She said she forgave me (what 
could she mean ?), and that, although she 
had been greatly annoyed, it was better 
that her engagement to my nephew Ralph 
should be broken off, since it had been 
entered into unwillingly, endured doubt- 
fully, and now that it was ended she felt 
a sense of security and peace which had 
been quite foreign to her all the months 
in which she had been looking forward 
to'an uncongenial marriage. That is the 
story, my dear Frank. Was it not all 
very droll ? . . . 

Yes, Violet and I intend to accept your 
kind invitation for the summer. She is 
anxious to be at Maurice’s wedding, 
while I am longing to watch your little 
affair with Miss Clairmont. Besides all 
that, I have some curiosity to see Amer- 
ica with my own eyes, for we read such 
droll stories about the ways and doings of 


the Americans. We shall sail the first of 
June. Mr. Meredith declares our going 

to be folly. But I am used to that. 

You know as much as I can tell you about 
Violet’s engagement. You can realize 
how glad we are to have her make any 
reasonable match, and are much pleased 
that her choice fell on Leslie Wilmot. 

With love for yourself and Maurice, I 
am, sans adieu , your loving aunt, 

Agnes. 


chapter IV. 

Frank Layton was ready to echo the 
words of Felise when she declared that 
some magic was at work in bringing ev- 
ery one to Saintford, for no sooner had 
he made all his arrangements to receive 
his aunt and cousin in June than his old 
friend, Harry Morton, an Englishman 
on a tour in America, dropped unex- 
pectedly down upon him. That Morton 
stayed beneath his roof but two nights, 
and then took lodgings in the village for 
a month, did not materially lighten a cer- 
tain burden of doubt which Frank felt, 
for his quandary had reference not to his 
own comfort, but to the feasibility of his 
friend’s renewing a long-past acquaint- 
ance with the Merediths. Morton had 
been Hubert Meredith’s tutor twelve 
years before, and Violet, then just sixteen 
years old and the maddest of high-spirit- 
ed girls, had begged her father to allow 
her a course of English literature under 
this young gentleman, whose appearance 
pleased her. Mrs. Meredith was away 
at the time, and the governess was a 
tranquil Dutch soul who reveled in sen- 
timent, and watched the love-affair, which 
progressed rapidly, with tears in her eyes 
and poetry on her lips. Only a few read- 
ings from Shakespeare were needed to 
convince both Morton and Violet that 
they were a second Romeo and Juliet, and 
the night-winds of Verona never heard 
more passionate vows of constancy than 
they exchanged in the wide gardens of 
Meredith Grange. But Mrs. Meredith’s 
return brought a sudden change. She 
read through Morton’s love-letters be- 
fore his face, laughed and said that this 
Ovidian style of composition was not in- 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


19 


eluded in the course of lessons he had 
been engaged to give her daughter, and 
burned them on the hearth one by one. 
“ It is really a pity,” she said, looking up 
at the young man, ‘‘for your essays in 
that class of literature are pretty — very 
pretty indeed — but so full of droll mis- 
takes that it is better not to preserve 
them. Now bring me my daughter’s 
exercises.” 

No one had any doubt but that Violet 
had long since forgotten this episode 
except as a memory to smile over, but 
Frank was in doubt concerning Morton, 
who in the twelve years passed by Miss 
Meredith in a life like a continuous fete 
had managed to gain himself a wide 
reputation as a novelist. He had begun 
by being a poet, and had thought highly 
of his poetry, to which the world was in- 
different, and had ended by writing fic- 
tion, which he despised, but which found 
a ready market and readers in both hemi- 
spheres. But Frank knew his friend in- 
timately, and knew that his heart was 
not in his work, and that his success gave 
him no more satisfaction than he would 
have felt at the rewards he gained from 
any trade. He was naturally a very sin- 
cere person in his words and actions, and 
in the realm of poetry he could be true 
to himself : in fiction he was, he always 
said, merely ingenious, and he never 
pressed his heart into the service of his 
imagination. He had no enthusiasm for 
his fictitious heroes and heroines, and al- 
ways declared that their sentiments and 
actions were independent of motive, and 
that their ultimate welfare depended on 
whatever mood controlled him when he 
awoke in the morning. The truth was, 
he was a disappointed man : he had taken 
the fever of life too early, and his symp- 
toms since had been those resulting from 
his having experienced a violent chill 
which drove the disease in. Frank Lay- 
ton had never quite understood his mal- 
ady until one day, a year before our story 
opens, he was walking with him in Rot- 
ten Row. Morton’s arm was in Frank’s, 
and suddenly he felt him shake, and was 
grasped with a clutch that positively 
made him stagger. Frank said nothing, 
but suddenly observed that Violet Mere- 


dith was within six feet of them, leaning 
over the side of her mother’s carriage 
and talking to two or three men on 
horseback. Morton’s pale face showed 
a bright red spot on either cheek for 
hours after, and though he never al- 
luded to the encounter, for a time the 
zest seemed gone from everything he 
did. This mood was the clew to a cer- 
tain indifference in look and manner 
which at times clouded him in an im- 
penetrable reserve, and at all times gov- 
erned him more or less. Now, however, 
that he was in Saintford, and knew that 
Miss Meredith was soon to arrive, he 
had so evidently brightened that the sit- 
uation aroused Frank’s apprehensions. 

‘‘I suppose you know that my cousin 
is engaged,” he said to Morton, ‘‘and 
that not many months are to elapse be- 
fore she marries Leslie Wilmot?” 

“I know that the papers have not 
yet tired of announcing the fian^ailles,” 
Morton returned. ‘‘I have seen Wil- 
mot: he is a stout, freckled boy.” 

‘‘I allow all that,” said Frank, laugh- 
ing ; ‘‘but when * a stout, freckled boy ’ is 
heir to an estate with a rent-roll which a 
prince might be glad of, he is quite as 
fascinating as if he could boast of chis- 
eled features and hyperion curls.” 

Morton held his tongue, but stood his 
ground. He claimed to have discovered 
a peculiar charm in Saintford, and hav- 
ing a novel to finish before October, de- 
cided that he could write better here than 
elsewhere. Frank did his best for him, 
and established him comfortably in a 
quiet little house, introduced him to all 
the people he knew, launched him at 
the residence of Mrs. Dury, a charming 
widow, and even took him up the hill to 
Mr. Knight’s and presented him to Miss 
Clairmont, which seemed almost need- 
less generosity on his part when Felise 
appeared at once to like the author. In 
person Morton was rather ugly in most 
people’s estimation, but distinguished- 
looking, with a slender figure, very ex- 
pressive dark eyes, and a smile which, 
though infrequent, showed singular 
sweetness. In manner he was one of 
the quietest of men, but never seemed 
dull, although he was no talker ; for he 


20 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


had a way of occasionally uttering those 
genial cynicisms which coincide with ev- 
erybody’s experiences, but which only 
clever people can reduce to axioms ; 
and perhaps these rare epigrams gave 
him a reputation for wit which more 
prolixity would have imperiled. Frank, 
who had long been on a footing of easy 
intimacy with him, and who enjoyed his 
society without ever yielding up his own 
native impassibility, found Morton a 
pleasant companion in the little coun- 
try place. They dined together usually, 
after a long morning spent by Morton in 
a pretence at least of literary occupation, 
and by Frank as often as possible in the 
society of Miss Clairmont. Afterward 
they strolled about the village streets, 
seizing in fact almost any pretext for 
idleness. Maurice was often with his 
brother for a night, counting all the 
hours he passed at the cottage as hap- 
pily canceled. He made little trips north 
and south, east and west, and returned 
with impatient accounts of the general 
insufficiency of things to amuse him. 
Wherever he went he was treated as a 
state guest, he affirmed with disgust, and 
was taken to inspect asylums. 

“ I can understand,” he complained to 
Frank, ‘‘why it is an object, as a means 
of gay recreation, to show a man in my 
position lunatic and inebriate asylums, 
but why those for idiots?” 

Frank told him that it was one of those 
delicate questions he did not like to ven- 
ture on investigating, and always offered 
to put a red day in his calendar by tak- 
ing him to see Miss Clairmont ; but this 
pleasure his brother constantly post- 
poned. He was to spend the final ten 
days before his wedding with Frank, and 
declared that he preferred to wait until 
that time before meeting Felise, since 
the last hours of his suspense promised 
to be particularly heavy. His efforts to 
get rid of this terrible interregnum were 
the cause of great mirth with both Frank 
and Morton. 

‘‘Is your brother in love ?” the latter 
asked. 44 1 confess I don’t think he is ; 
so you need not commit yourself. But 
tell me something about Miss Clifford. 
Is she beautiful ?” 


“Well, no. But she has an exquisite 
complexion, fine eyes — in brief, half a 
dozen good points; but the result is 
something less than beauty.” 

‘‘Like Dido, for instance,” remarked 
Morton. “ I always fancied Dido missed 
beauty, somehow ; not that she was in 
the least ugly, but if she had been a lit- 
tle more like Helen- of Sparta or Miss 
Clairmont, for instance, Aeneas would 
never have left her to settle Italy.” 

Frank flinched slightly at the mention 
of F elise, whose name he perhaps thought 
should only be uttered by ordinary mor- 
tals with genuflections. 

“Well,” said he, “ I am glad Dido was 
not handsomer, then ; but I do not lament 
that Helen of Sparta was irresistible and 
a trifle inclined to make mischief, for 
we should have lacked something if the 
Greeks had not invaded the stronghold 
of Priam to reclaim her. No, Miss Clif- 
ford is certainly no Helen, but she has a 
fine intellect : her preference is an im- 
mense compliment to a man, and her 
flattery might acquire as powerful an in- 
fluence over any of us as the sweetest 
face in the world. I do not myself mind 
her lack of beauty so much as I do that 
of charm. However, it is a great match. 
Maurice knows himself to be a lucky 
fellow.” 

“ But wishes the fuss well over,” re- 
marked Morton. “I confess, with a 
prospect of average happiness, I think 
I could quite enjoy my antenuptial med- 
itations.” 

Frank did not express his convictions, 
he was on his way to Mrs. Knight’s to 
take dinner, and left Morton behind him. 
It was early June now, and after the meal 
was over he and Felise went out into the 
garden. It was a quiet, old-fashioned 
garden, with clumps of box alternating 
precisely with syringas and lilacs ; but 
meanwhile roses and honeysuckles had 
clambered riotously from one point of 
support to another, and now in their 
light luxuriance of leaf and blossom 
laughed at the formal squares of the 
primitive arrangement. Yet there was 
a quaint foreign air about it all, from the 
stiff marble urns, now freshly filled with 
bright flowers, to the fountain, where a 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


21 


cracked, discolored Hebe held out her 
goblet with a grace which should have 
made one forget that the goddess was 
ever younger or fairer than she appear- 
ed here ; for, although time had washed 
all clearness from the features of her 
face and made ugly fissures in the sculp- 
tured perfections of her form, she went 
blithely on, even in her decay offering 
the draught of the gods to all who ap- 
proached her. 

Frank had gone to the fountain with 
Felise to feed the gold-fish a little too 
often not to have experienced the intox- 
ication of the goddess’s nectar. Indeed, 
by this time he made small secret of his 
state of mind, for he had spoken to both 
Mr. and Mrs. Knight about his wishes, 
and received their permission to visit 
their house as intimately as he chose, 
and win the young girl if he could. Mr. 
Knight had never before liked any of 
the men who sought his niece ; but Frank 
Layton was the pleasantest companion 
he had ever found, since he had studied 
deeply enough into Nature and science 
to be by no means indifferent to those 
high results which the old scientist con- 
sidered the end of life, and had lived all 
his life in the sphere of thought of those 
who know and do the best that is 
achieved in the world. 

As for Mrs. Knight, she had yielded 
at once to the quiet charm which was 
one of Frank’s gifts, liking his hand- 
some tranquil face and limpid eyes, his 
admirable training and habitual obser- 
vance of the best usages, his pleasant 
voice and his manner of saying agree- 
able things. This was of course a super- 
ficial judgment, but women argue very 
well when they say that even if a man 
has mastered the world, unless he has 
meanwhile mastered himself there re- 
mains a good deal for him to conquer be- 
fore they recognize his absolute capacity. 
In fact, Mrs. Knight did not try to con- 
ceal her candid enthusiasm for him. In a 
week she had made up her mind that he 
was the one man in the world for Felise 
to marry, and that the finger of Provi- 
dence was startlingly visible both in the 
circumstances which had first made him 
aware of her existence, and in those which 


had afterward preserved her for him. 
Accordingly, she had mentally planned 
out their future in each other’s society, 
even to the number of children they 
would have and what their names should 
be, with that delicious absence of good 
sense, combined with wild freedom of 
conjecture, which characterizes the ma- 
ture feminine mind in the presence of a 
possible romance. 

However, Mrs. Knight was exquisite- 
ly discreet, and had never parted with 
Frank’s secret to Felise, whose state of 
mind toward her new suitor it would be 
difficult to portray. She had been a lit- 
tle disconsolate in returning to America 
to settle, for her strongest associations 
were all with the Old World, and she 
had felt — with that incapacity for believ- 
ing that her present state of feeling was 
not final which is the attribute of young 
minds — that everything she could hold 
precious was left behind her. The world 
had seemed very wide to her, and its 
immensity made her hopeless of ever 
finding anything of her own again. The 
succession of experiences which had pass- 
ed over her had not moved her feelings 
enough to develop her from the dream- 
ing child she had always been. She had 
never known her father, her mother had 
died when she was but seven years old, 
and her childhood had been so desolate 
that when, on the death of her father’s 
sister, she was claimed by her maternal 
aunt, the young girl, just sixteen, had 
felt a happiness absolutely rapture in 
having loving arms to nestle in. She 
had been so far from experiencing any 
need of a stronger love than this home- 
tenderness that her very health had suf- 
fered from the irksomeness of having 
lovers to torture her with adoration. All 
her life she had been brought up to have 
housekeeping cares, servants to manage, 
exigeant guardians to provide with amuse- 
ment and interest, and her imagination 
had been fully employed : she had had 
no chance for ennui and had read no 
novels. If thoughts of her possible fate 
occurred to her, they still came like half- 
veiled glimmerings of light, and she bow- 
ed before them as before a divine pres- 
ence. She was unaffectedly religious. 


22 


LOVE IN IDLENESS . 


and, although nominally Protestant, had 
lived with Catholics so long that she had 
many of their artless habits of thought. 
She wanted to be happy, very happy ; 
but above all she wanted to be good, 
very good. But hitherto none of her 
needs had framed themselves in abso- 
lute formulas, and she was guiltless of 
devising any of those axioms of self- 
comprehension and self-guidance which 
more self-conscious women often make 
for themselves when very young. 

Meeting Frank Layton in Saintford 
was so agreeable a surprise that he in- 
stantly influenced the direction of all her 
thoughts. He had told her at once of 
their two chance rencontres in Paris, and 
although he had not said that he had fol- 
lowed her here, she had probably divined 
it, and in return for his modest disclosures, 
upon which he based no requisitions, she 
gave him her intimate friendship, which 
no other man had ever had, with a tacit 
reliance which, however it might encour- 
age hope in the future, taught him to 
master any indiscretions such as his love 
would have been but too ready to betray 
him into had she evinced the least co- 
quetry in her behavior. She was fem- 
inine in every instinct : it was natural 
for her to accept the homage he render- 
ed her with a shy pleasure at the elo- 
quence of such mute devotion, and with 
a shy avoidance, as well, of appearing 
to accept it. Frank was experienced in 
women, and was not slow in recognizing 
the fact that with all her superficial know- 
ledge of life she was absolutely fresh at 
heart, and that the man who won her 
now would have the first stirring of wo- 
manly feeling, of passionate worship. 

Frank’s requirements of Fate were 
none of the smallest, but he felt very 
well satisfied this afternoon as he held 
the bread for Felise while she fed the 
gold-fish. When it was all gone the two 
sat down side by side upon the turfy bank 
around the fountain. The afternoon shad- 
ows were lengthening ; all about the place 
the grand elms stood motionless in the 
calm June air; from the flower-thickets 
came the last drowsy hum of bees as 
they tumbled out of the honeysuckles 
drunk with sweets and flew homeward ; 


here and there fluttered down a rose- 
leaf, the only suggestion which could 
have taught a lover that “time could 
come and take his love away,” and that 
he must weep in having that which he 
was forced to lose. Felise’s pet rabbits 
peered in and out of the shrubberies, 
nibbling at the clover, and every now 
and then above the patter of the fountain 
sounded the whir of wings as her white 
doves flew from the graveled path over 
into the garden. 

“Aunt Agnes and Violet will be here 
next week,” said Frank. “You must 
help me to find amusement for them. 
But these people who are so used to 
gayety are so easily amused.” 

“Yes: that is their habit,” returned 
Felise. “Now, I am quite stupid and 
countrified in my ways : I am getting 
altogether unamusable.” 

Felise, although she spoke English of 
remarkable purity, nevertheless gave a 
delicious accent to some of her words, 
and when she called herself stupid she 
was completely irresistible. 

“ Stupid !” repeated Frank. “ Perhaps 
it is I whom you think stupid : I come 
too often. You need a little variety : you 
shall have a ball if you like. I know you 
are fond of dancing. Or what is it you 
like best?” 

“It seems to me,” cried Felise, “that 
I was never happier in my life than I 
am to-day. I have been so busy. This 
morning I made the crisp cakes my un- 
cle likes ; afterward I read to him, and 
made notes as we went along ; I helped 
Aunt Laura at her sewing ; I gardened 
and picked flowers for the dinner-table. 
Now, it is so pleasant to be idle. Is not 
the day sweet ? * I look up and see the 
white clouds in the blue sky, and I feel 
at peace. It will not be so when your 
aunt and Violet come. Do not fancy I 
do not love them, for they are my dear 
friends. But they put me in a fever. ‘ Ah,’ 
Violet will say , 4 let us do something ;’ and 
then I shall get into mischief.” 

“No, I intend to take care of you,” 
observed Frank. “But if you are hap- 
py, what do you suppose these days are 
to me, Felise ?” 

“ I think you deserve to be very hap- 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


23 


py,” said she, blushing, for he had never 
called her by her Christian name before. 

“You can make me happy at any time,” 
he returned kindly, but without ardor, 
which he had been taught to hold well 
in check. “Don’t let Violet teach you 
to torture me: she is an accomplished 
girl, but do not learn any lessons of her, 
Felise. You do not mind,” he said, 
dropping his voice, “ if here, alone, this 
pleasant afternoon, I call you Felise?” 

His look and tone overmastered her 
a little. She drooped her head. “No,” 
she answered with the air of a frighten- 
ed child. 

Whether to speak or not was the ques- 
tion at his heart. He counted the days 
he had known her, and, alas ! they were 
but twenty-four. He could be prompt 
and direct enough on occasion, but had 
been warned to loiter a little here. He 
put the temptation behind him with a 
sigh, and although his instinct taught 
him the opportunity was a golden one, 
and not often to be renewed, he decided 
that his story was telling itself to her all 
the time, and could fix itself in her breast. 

Neither of them broke the silence 
which had settled over them, and the 
air grew more and more golden as the 
sun sank. What startled them both was 
the sound of a laugh and voice. 

“That is Maurice,” exclaimed Frank, 
springing to his feet as Mrs. Knight ad- 
vanced down the steps of the terrace with 
a gentleman quite strange to Felise, but 
who was nevertheless looking at her with 
a sort of recognition, or at least expec- 
tation, as if she were the person he was 
seeking. “Why, Maurice,” Frank went 
on, shaking hands cordially with the 
new-comer, “what a good fellow you are 
to follow me here !” 

“The best of fellows,” returned his 
brother, “ if there be any virtue in being 
utterly worn out with waiting for you 
three hours without a morsel to eat. But 
introduce me properly to Mrs. Knight 
and Miss Clairmont, for I have intruded 
most unceremoniously upon them. The 
fact was, I strolled to the gate, heard 
voices on the piazza, took it for grant- 
ed you were there, and entered.” 

“ I assure you no apology is required,” 


said Mrs. Knight. “We are delighted 
to see Mr. Frank Layton’s brother. Fe- 
lise dear, let me introduce Mr. Layton 
to you.” 

Maurice bowed very low : his manners 
on such occasions were always a little 
grand, but now he was dazzled by the 
beauty of the young girl, which, set off in 
its faint light by the background of dark 
greenery, seemed to him ravishing. 

“ So you came at three o’clock, Mau- 
rice?” observed Frank, looking at his 
watch. “ I thought you were safe at Oak- 
lands for twenty-four hours more.” 

“On the contrary, I find myself in 
Saintford and — in peril,” retorted Mau- 
rice. “Yes, I arrived at three o’clock, 
walked from the station and entered your 
place by the little gate under the willows. 
Hearing the tinkle of a guitar, I follow- 
ed the sound, and discovered Luigi play- 
ing romanzas in the summer-house while 
he smoked one of your best cigars. I 
inquired for his master, and he informed 
me I should find him here, and added, 
‘ E ben trovato' ” 

Frank was disconcerted, and pulled 
his moustache. “Now, I will take you 
home,” said he, “feed you, and make 
up for your cool reception.” 

“ I do not want to go : I prefer Mrs. 
Knight’s garden,” rejoined Maurice. 
“Besides, Mr. Knight obligingly remark- 
ed to me that everybody was to have 
strawberries and cream presently, and 
that he hoped I would join them.” 

“Yes,” put in Mrs. Knight hospitably, 
“we were going to have tea out of doors, 
and every one must stay for it. But if 
you have not dined, Mr. Layton — ” 

“Oh, dear madam, I have dined,” said 
Maurice, who meant that he had dined 
twenty-four hours before. “ I am ready 
to live on rose-leaves, any ethereal food 
that you offer me.” And he followed 
Felise and sat down beside her on the 
garden-bench. — “Miss Clairmont,” he 
began, “Frank has not yet forgiven me 
for interrupting the story he was telling 
you, but I hope you are more lenient.” 

“He was not telling me anything,” 
said Felise, looking up at Frank, who 
stood before her. “ I cannot remember 
that we were speaking at all.” 


24 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


“Ah ! that is the way intercourse is 
carried on in Saintford — without words ! 
I have come to spend a week or more 
with my brother, Miss Clairmont, and I 
am ready for any form of enjoyment. I 
have had so many tedious minutes late- 
ly, but now I see a way of getting through 
the ensuing fortnight comfortably. Why 
should I not have one glimpse of pleas- 
ure, like that given to novitiates before 
they take the veil ? What beguilements 
does Saintford offer to a bachelor, Mrs. 
Knight ?” 

“We poor women have few beguile- 
ments : we are very humdrum, but put 
on our prettiest dresses and display them 
to your brother, who devotes himself to 
a widow. You should ask him concern- 
ing beguilements.” 

“Is Frank in love with a widow? I 
suspected there was some element of at- 
traction in Saintford. In that case, Miss 
Clairmont, why may I not devote myself 
to you ?” 

“ I think any sort of beguilement quite 
incompatible with your position as bride- 
groom elect,” said Frank, laughing. “I 
feel it my duty at once to inquire about 
Miss Clifford.” 

“ She is very well. But don’t rattle my 
chains before Miss Clairmont. Rosa- 
mond is extremely busy receiving pres- 
ents and trying on articles of her trous- 
seau, which is just in from Paris after a 
torturing delay. I have brought you a 
note of thanks for your present, Frank. 
— I assure you, Mrs. Knight, he did it 
handsomely, and the gift is superb. In 
fact, the wedding sacrifices are all so 
costly and magnificent that I was glad 
to get away from all necessity of ex- 
claiming over them.” 

“ Don’t put on airs,” suggested Frank : 
“a great many men have been married 
before.” 

“And lived through the ordeal. That 
reflection supports me in the present 
crisis.” 

Tea was ready on the terrace by the 
east piazza, the prettiest nook of all the 
place, where moss-roses and honey- 
suckles grew. In front they could see 
the sunset flush on the water, and the 
light from the west struck through the 


colonnade of trees that surrounded the 
grassy lawn. Mrs. Knight poured out 
the tea, and Felise carried it about to 
the gentlemen as if she were a child, 
and piled their plates with strawberries. 
She was dressed in half - transparent 
white, her wonderful hair of pale gold 
tied up with blue ribbon and floating on 
her shoulders. She wore heavy gold 
chains wound about her arms, and they 
constantly slipped over her wrists and 
impeded her hands unless she held them 
back. Maurice’s eyes were riveted upon 
her, and his attention seemed absorbed 
by the movement of the little fingers to 
the troublesome ornaments. Mr. Knight 
was talking to him and required con- 
stant answers, but the necessity of main- 
taining the conversation was irksome to 
him : he felt inclined to yield himself 
to the influence of the pretty domestic 
scene. Nobody seemed to notice the 
young girl except himself. Frank was 
apparently taken up with Mrs. Knight : 
Morton had dropped in, and was teach- 
ing the little greyhound, Zoo -Zoo, to 
hold a piece of cake on his nose until 
he counted ten. They might all regard 
this sort of thing with the unconcern of 
habit, but Maurice had not often been 
served by a woman who pleased his 
eyes so exquisitely. He found himself 
drinking cup after cup of a beverage he 
usually rejected, just that he might watch 
the little hands grasp the sugar-tongs 
and the wistful glances of her eyes as 
she sought the easiest attainable lumps, 
and then meet her smile as she asked if 
that were right. She took no pains to 
entertain any one, but when Mr. Knight 
had finished his tea he drew her to him, 
and putting her arm about his neck, pat- 
ted his time-worn cheek with her little 
hand while he talked to his guest. Mau- 
rice now and then appealed to her, when 
she answered in a way that showed her 
mind alert and interested in what they 
were saying, but she offered no remarks 
on her own account. 

The sun had quite gone, and the lu- 
minous blue seemed all at once merged 
in golden light, for transparent clouds 
had stolen up from the sea, spreading 
over the vault above until now they 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


25 


absorbed all the splendors of the west. 
Above, it seemed a radiant sphere of 
glory, and it changed the color of the 
trees and grass beneath until every- 
thing seemed touched with a rarer 
charm. 


“ We must go in,” said Mr. Knight. 
“ It will be damp presently.” 

Maurice, as he walked along the ter- 
race by the side of Felise, said to him- 
self, not for the first time, that she was 
the prettiest creature he had ever seen. 



! 


IF.A. HR T II. 


CHAPTER V. 

M AURICE had been but three days 
at the cottage when Mrs. Meredith 
and Violet arrived and made the domes- 
tic circle complete. Mrs. Meredith, the 
youngest sister of the mother of the Lay- 
tons, was now well past forty, but still 
retained much of the spirituel beauty 
of her youth. She was a brilliant, ec- 
centric woman of fashion, who had led 
her world for years, although she had 
made the mistake of a foolish marriage, 
having at seventeen broken off an au- 
spicious engagement, approved by her 
family, to run away with Hubert Meredith, 
the only son of a Catholic gentleman who 
had married an Italian woman of superb 
beauty but doubtful antecedents. The 
good looks he inherited from his Ro- 
man mother had proved to be young 
Meredith’s sole recommendation, and 
these, with some of his other charac- 
teristics, were repeated in his children. 
Violet had inherited all the pride, pas- 
sion and obstinate self-will of her ances- 
tors, and with remarkable beauty had 
been able to indulge a caprice for thought- 
less flirting which had injured her chances 
of marriage. She had been engaged over 
and over again : why should we dwell 
upon the pitiful stories which were told 
concerning her love-affairs ? She seem- 
ed to take a pleasure in disappointing 
not only her lovers, but her friends, and 
in setting the world to wondering at her 
behavior. She was now engaged to Les- 
lie Wilmot, a good-hearted, generous boy, 
several years younger than herself, and 
heir to very large estates ; but as she had 
already refused his request to be married 
at Easter, and made no promises for the 
autumn, her present caprice in coming 
to America for the summer had filled the 
breasts of her family with lively convic- 
tions of the insecurity of temporal things. 
Perhaps one man held the clew to much 
of this irresponsible behavior : at least 
Maurice Layton had often remembered 
with a mixture of shame and disgust a 
26 


promise she had made him ten years 
before — a purely disinterested promise 
which he had been far enough from 
requiring at her hands — that she would 
never marry until he was entirely beyond 
her reach. He could not help recalling 
this when she sent him word that she 
was coming over to his wadding. 

The ladies arrived late at night, and 
it was ten o’clock next morning before 
Mrs. Meredith came down from her room, 
and finding no one, went peering about 
the library and parlors, glass at eye, half 
in curiosity to see what manner of house 
the outside barbarians of America lived 
in, and half in search of her nephew. 
She arched her brows at his priceless 
Psyche, and raised her hands at an Etrus- 
can vase; then, seeing Frank outside, 
she parted the curtains and stepping out 
of the open French window upon the 
terrace, went down the walk to meet him. 
“I discover,” said she, “that I am in 
Paradise.” 

“Do you like my little place?” 

“Immensely. I’ve been prying all 
over your house. It is as pretty as need 
be, and some of your trifles must have 
cost a world of money ; but, better than 
all that, one can live in your rooms. 
You know, from sad experience, that our 
tumble-down old Grange always suggests 
a place to die in.” 

She was so petite a woman that Frank 
could lift her in his arms : he did so now, 
kissed her on both cheeks, then placed 
her on the garden-bench and sat down 
beside her. But although her stature 
was not mighty, she carried more state 
in her presence than many women with 
a third more inches. In her youth her 
admirers had declared that she resem- 
bled Marie Antoinette, and the likeness 
had settled her style of dress for life: 
she always wore a profusion of lace over 
pale rich silks in the evening, and, no 
matter what was the prevailing fashion, 
the masses of her fair hair were drawn 
high over a slight cushion. The result 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


27 


was, if not a resemblance to the unfor- 
tunate queen, at least an extraordinary 
grace and piquancy added to her arch- 
ed chiseled features. 

“I slept well,” she returned in answer 
to her nephew’s inquiries : “ it seemed 
such a comfort to be on land and in a 
bed again. I was seasick to an un- 
earthly degree all the way over. I used 
to wonder dimly in my agony why we 
were coming to America, and had a 
vague consciousness that we were what 
my husband declared, the two idiots of 
the universe, to have renounced a firm 
footing on earth for the animated calam- 
ity of a steamer which was equally hor- 
rible to hear, to smell and to feel. But 
now, the ‘billows past,’ I am glad we 
came.” 

“ Now you want some breakfast ? Here 
is Luigi for orders. Will you wait for 
Violet ?” 

** I should as soon think of waiting for 
angels to descend : their comings are 
equally uncertain. But I do not wish 
to go inside. Why can we not breakfast 
here ?” 

‘‘We will breakfast in the summer- 
house, Luigi.” 

“ Is not Maurice up ?” asked Mrs. 
Meredith in an injured tone, looking at 
her watch. 

“ Oh yes : Maurice is out of bed at six 
o’clock, and settled down after breakfast 
by seven.” 

‘‘How very droll ! Why is he not 
here taking care of me ? What is your 
man’s name ?” 

‘‘Luigi.” 

‘‘Luigi, take Mrs. Meredith’s love to 
Mr. Layton and ask him to breakfast 
with her in the summer-house. — Frank, 
I suppose that is the little Italian beggar 
you picked up ?” 

‘‘Yes : is he not a handsome fellow ?” 

‘‘Altogether too handsome for a ser- 
vant. Absolutely, there comes Violet ! — 
Good-morning, dearest child. Did you 
sleep, or did you feel the motion of the 
ship?” 

‘‘I generally sleep,” returned Violet, 
kissing her mother and offering her 
bloomy cheek to Frank. ‘‘In fact, in 
this life of ours the difficulty is to do 


anything else. What a nice little house 
you have, Frank ! My room is the pret- 
tiest I ever slept in. What fine roses !” 
And walking to a rosebush, she stripped 
it of blossoms and put them in her hair 
and in her belt. She was a beautiful 
woman, but beyond her beauty she im- 
pressed the most casual beholder with 
the distinction of her manner, voice and 
most trivial gesture. She always dress- 
ed with daring simplicity in the morn- 
ing, and now wore a white lawn made 
like a peignoir, but as she stood there 
decking herself with roses, only less rich 
and glowing than her own vivid coloring, 
she needed nothing in the way of art to 
make the picture complete. 

‘‘How well you are looking, Violet!” 
remarked Frank with undisguised admi- 
ration. 

‘‘Am I not? I expected to be green 
and yellow after my voyage, but, on the 
contrary, it quite set me up. Besides, 
you know, I’ve been and got engaged 
since I saw you, Frank, and contentment 
is the true beautifier. Weren’t you glad 
to hear there was a chance of my set- 
tling at last?” 

“ I never was so relieved in my life,” 
asseverated Frank. 44 1 have always been 
haunted by the fear of having to marry 
you myself in order to keep you out of 
mischief.” 

‘‘What a nice idea! I can imagine 
nothing more charming. If you will only 
offer yourself now, I will go in and write 
a little note to Leslie telling him that cir- 
cumstances over which I have no con- 
trol, etc. — Then I will marry you to- 
morrow. You are not so rich as he is, 
but then you are several inches taller, 
which is a fortune in itself. It is so 
dreadful to be obliged to waltz with a 
man who only comes up to one’s chin. 
But after I am really married to Leslie 
I shall never be forced to dance with 
him nor take his arm, so that one of my 
acutest sources of suffering will be over.” 

“ I don’t seem to remember Leslie, but 
he has grown up since I was much in 
London. I know his family very well — 
thoroughly nice people.” 

‘‘Yes. Papa Wilmot is the fine old 
English gentleman entirely, and Mam- 


28 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


ma Wilmot is a fine lady, as only a wo- 
man born to wealth, and not to station, 
can be a fine lady. No end of money is 
coming to Leslie.” 

“ I am glad you are satisfied at last.” 

“ Oh, we are satisfied — aren’t we, mam- 
ma? Why should I not be satisfied, 
Frank? I am twenty-eight years old. 
Once I had limitless aspirations, vague 
desires, sentiments, dreams, despair ! 
Now I like jewels, lace, china, good din- 
ners and more money than my neigh- 
bors. Youth is the season of discontent: 
I am getting so philosophical ! And you 
and Maurice are both settling down, dear 
cousin ?” 

“ I have got a house, at all events ; 
and it is something for me to have a 
home who have had none since I was 
thirteen years old.” 

Violet gave a grimace: “You’re al- 
most pathetic. Thank your stars that 
you have had none if the absence of a 
home has left you any belief in it.” 

“Oh, Violet!” exclaimed Mrs. Mere- 
dith, “you are too cynical.” 

“ Only matter-of-fact, mamma. What 
is home to most people, from peers down 
to peasants, but the spot that is sacred to 
the secret failings, meannesses, tempers, 
dreariness and dullness of a family whom 
one is happy to escape from ? Give me 
the outside world instead, where people 
wear their best manners and offer sweet 
smiles, kind words and bright thoughts.” 

“ There comes Maurice, and I see cups 
and saucers in the distance,” said Mrs. 
Meredith. “ I shall be glad of a cup of 
tea: I don’t know how people can be 
epigrammatic before breakfast. — How 
are you, my dear Maurice?” 

Maurice entered the summer-house 
and kissed his aunt’s little hand. “Are 
you well, Pansy ?” he went on, address- 
ing his cousin after he had responded to 
his aunt’s affectionate greetings. Vio- 
let answered his motion toward her by 
extending two fingers. “Just as you 
say,” said he with a provoking smile. 
“ If you are indifferent to my modest 
civilities, I will not bore you.” 

“Your modest civilities mean so little.” 

“ I never found modesty to succeed with 
women,” he retorted. “ How do you like 


my audacity?” And he kissed her, but 
Violet gave no token of preferring his 
audacity. 

“ I like breakfast out of doors in June,” 
said Maurice, sitting down. “ I had a 
chop and a cup of coffee hours ago, 
Aunt Agnes, but this sort of thing tempts 
me into eating again. I will have some 
strawberries and cream.” 

“ I delight in everything rural and rus- 
tic,” observed Mrs. Meredith. “I should 
like to dress like Watteau’s ladies, and go 
about with a crook and live out of doors. 
All my tastes are pastoral, and nothing 
but the want of a few sheep and a good- 
looking shepherd prevents my turning 
shepherdess at once.” 

“ I know plenty of sheep,” said Mau- 
rice ; “ and if I were not obliged to get 
married next week, I should like noth- 
ing better than bucolics, and would pipe 
to you all the day long.” 

“ Harry Morton is here,” put in Frank, 
“and I have no doubt he will rejoice to 
play ‘ ye gentle shepherd.’ ” 

“ Harry Morton !” cried Violet. “You 
surely do not mean Hubert’s old tutor?” 

“ But I do, though. I knew it would 
be a surprise to you, pleasant or un- 
pleasant as the case might be. He has 
been in America six months, and is 
at present settled down here finishing a 
novel.” 

“How exceedingly droll !” exclaimed 
Mrs. Meredith. “He shall put me in his 
book. His novels are very clever, and 
I always tell people their author is an old 
crony of mine. He is witty, but an aw- 
ful radical. I feel myself a burden to 
society while I am reading his works.” 

“I’m a radical myself,” said Violet: 
“ I never could see that I am any better 
than our gardener’s wife. In fact, she 
is the better woman and Christian of the 
two.” 

“Nonsense! Why don’t you go and 
marry the under-gardener? Molly the 
housemaid has dismissed him. As for 
radicals, I’ve no faith in them : they’re 
all thoroughpaced snobs, who would throw 
over an ‘ affable archangel ’ for the sake of 
dining with a lord. But they tell a good 
story of Morton, and the way he put 
down Lord Randal. They were both 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


2 9 


dining with a party at Richmond, and 
Morton was quite the hero of the night, 
and kept the whole table in a tumult over 
his witticisms. ‘ By Jove !’ cried Randal, 
who is always a fool, but a greater fool 
than ever after dinner, 4 why aren’t you 
in society, Morton ? I should like to in- 
troduce you to my mother. Such a clever 
fellow ought to be a gentleman.’ Morton 
turned and smiled at him. 4 Are you a 
gentleman, Lord Randal?* he asked in 
the sweetest way. ‘ Of course I am : who 
says I ain’t ?’ shrieked out poor Randal, 
glaring around the table. 4 Why, then,’ 
murmured Morton with a puzzled air, 

4 how could a clever fellow be a gentle- 
man ?’ ” 

Violet laughed. “Yet,” said she, “Mr. 
Morton would give all his brains to have 
been born a gentleman, as the phrase 
goes.” 

“The phrase is worn out,” retorted 
Frank. “Morton is as good a gentle- 
man as any man I know.” 

“Oh, I have no doubt,” said Violet 
with her arch, mutinous smile, “that he 
will be received as such in the kingdom 
of heaven, where we are told that earth- 
ly titles, rank, precedence and other dross 
shall vanish away. But don’t fear, Frank, 
that I shall not be very good to him. He 
deserves it, for, as somebody said before 
me, 4 he loved me once.’ ” 

“That is,” remarked Maurice, “he 
made you believe so.” . 

44 1 hope he is amusing : I long to be 
amused.” 

44 1 never found him amusing. Why 
should you long to be amused ?” 

“ Do not look so scornful,” retorted Vio- 
let with one of her swift, brilliant glances 
at her cousin. “To be sure, amusement 
is exclusively a masculine privilege in 
this tiresome world, where society has 
endeavored by every possible combina- 
tion of usage, formula and tradition to 
make the weight of ennui enforced per- 
fectly insupportable to us women. Every- 
thing conspires to render your existence 
easy and agreeable. You have the first 
choice of pleasures : our ambitions, know- 
ledge, emotions even, come to us second- 
hand. We have scarcely an independent 
source of pleasure. Our lives are made 


by the books we read, the conversations 
we hear, the variations of folly in our 
lovers. Mr. Morton was clever when 
I knew him, with little parrot -talk or 
simian modelings of himself upon other 
men’s ideas and manners.” 

“I dare say he has not grown uninter- 
esting. Amuse yourself by all means, my 
dear Pansy,” said Maurice in a tone which 
indicated high moral intention, “but don’t 
fail to remember one thing which women 
are always forgetting — that amusement 
brings cruel consequences at times. Y our 
sex has some intuitions, but you always 
fail to recognize one crude and startling 
fact — that causes have effects and effects 
causes. A man readily sees that a light- 
ed fuse will in time burn into the maga- 
zine, but you believe the powder non-in- 
flammable, or think the match will go out, 
or if you for a moment catch a glimpse 
of possible danger, you shrug your white 
shoulders and say, 4 Va! apres nous le 
deluge.’ ” 

“You are a very poor preacher, Mau- 
rice,” exclaimed Violet, laughing, "but 
you never lose a chance of being severe 
upon women. Yet the delassements of 
your long courtship ought to have in- 
clined you to a better appreciation of the 
sex. Tell me about Miss Clifford. We 
have brought her some wonderful lace 
flounces. When do you set out to meet 
her, never to part again ?” 

“To-night,” returned Maurice: “I 
must reach Oaklands to-morrow even- 
ing. What can I tell you about Rosa- 
mond, Pansy ? She is anxious to meet 
you : I hope you may be good friends.” 

“Don’t dream of it,” said Violet tart- 
ly. 44 1 no longer go in for friendships 
of any description. Besides, we should 
never suit each other. I hear she is very 
cold and stately. Excuse my frankness, 
Maurice, if I say that I wonder at your 
choice : I fancied such a glacier as your- 
self would have preferred something 
warm and sunshiny.” 

“The only chance of self-preservation 
for a glacier is to stay among snow-cov- 
ered peaks, my dear Pansy.” 

She looked at him steadily. “ Of course 
you have met Miss Clairmont,” she mur- 
mured drowsily. 


3 ° 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


“Of course I have met Miss Clair- 
mont.” 

“How did you like her ?” 

“What a woman’s question! I sup- 
pose you expect me to say she is ‘ nice’ ?’’ 

“Under existing circumstances,” ob- 
served Violet, blandly, “ you could scarce- 
ly be expected to be absolutely candid. 
But you need not pretend that you fail 
to admire her.” 

“ I admire her immensely.” 

“ She is remarkably beautiful. I hear 
that all American women are beautiful, 
but I do not believe she is surpassed by 
many of your countrywomen.” 

“ Without depreciating my country- 
women’s claims to beauty, I must say I 
think their style a little less perfect than 
Miss Clairmont’s. There is something 
about her face that I have rarely seen 
outside of a painter’s canvas : there is 
something ideal about her.” 

“Then,” pursued Violet, watching her 
cousin closely, “ she has infinite tact and 
is remarkably clever.” 

“ Is she clever ? That had not once 
occurred to me. She is certainly little 
of a talker.” 

“She makes you talk, is it not ?” 

Maurice laughed. “ Yes,” he exclaim- 
ed, “ I confess I have found a good deal 
to say to her.” 

“Has she sung to you ?” 

“ Many times.” 

“Few voices equal hers.” 

“Very few,” said Maurice absently; 
“ at least it is to be hoped there are few 
voices like hers, for I think with many 
such sirens singing on the earth, men 
would go to perdition generally, and the 
world’s work would never be done.” 

“Oh, you too are under her spell,” 
cried Violet contemptuously. 

“Oh no,” laughed Maurice. “Frank 
is bewitched, not I. There she comes 
now;” and Violet, turning, saw Felise 
alighting from a pony-carriage. Frank 
sprang down the drive, and led her to 
the summer-house, where the party was 
still loitering. The gentlemen drew back 
and watched the ladies embrace, their 
light draperies melting into each other’s 
like clouds while they looked into each 
other’s faces and bestowed those soft, 


zephyry cheek - caresses women call 
kisses. 

Violet and Felise remained standing 
together, their tall slender figures thrown 
into delightful contrast. Felise’s guile- 
less baby-smile irradiated love and sun- 
shine. Violet’s face was all fire and 
pride : some Trastavernian ancestor had 
bequeathed her a stately pose of head and 
throat, and all the passion of Southern 
races was in her eyes ; the haughtiness 
of sovereign and cruel generations show- 
ed in her mien, and nothing saved her 
face from arrogance but the charm of 
her smile, which was sunny, open, cap- 
tivating, like a burst of sunshine from 
behind a cloud. 

Frank folded his arms and tried to 
look pleased while the ladies exchanged 
these little social amenities, but in his 
heart he was conscious of an inhospit- 
able wish that these relations were still 
across the summer seas, for he perceived 
at once that they were fond of petting 
Miss Clairmont. He seemed to see a 
prospect that the exquisite joy of his 
summer days was to be diluted into a 
waste of infinite twaddle. He watched 
them with a frigid eye. Pretty women 
quiver and plume themselves like birds, 
and group like flowers ; and even if they 
do not love each other, it seems to hap- 
less man as if they did, and as if they 
loved nothing else. Man grows giddy 
as he regards their demonstrations : men 
do not affect the same intimacy among 
themselves, do not caress and cling to 
each other, cooing little insipidities of 
delight into each other’s ears. Accord- 
ingly, such kisses and pet phrases and 
embraces induce temporary self-disgust 
and despair in the masculine mind. 
Alone, a woman is assailable, but in a 
phalanx she is terrible. 

“Is it not droll that we should all meet 
here ?” said Mrs. Meredith as she sat down 
and smoothed her ruffled plumage like a 
canary-bird. “The ends of the earth 
have been ransacked and the affinities 
brought together.” 

“I thought I had left almost all my 
friends behind me in the Old World,” 
said Felise, deigning finally to accept 
the garden-chair Frank had brought to 


LOVE IN IDLENESS . 


31 


her, “but if they follow me I have noth- 
ing to regret.” 

“I have been expecting a depopulation 
of the kingdom,” observed Mrs. Mere- 
dith, who always carried about a little 
pebble to fling at the person she loved 
best, and, not wishing to be too particular, 
now flung it at once; “but the flying feet 
of your votaries, Felise, have been clog- 
ged by circumstances beyond their con- 
trol. Lord Palliser has been crippled with 
the gout; Hubert has had his debts paid 
on condition that he does not cross the 
Atlantic ; and Ralph Wylde has given 
his attention to ameliorating the condi- 
tion of his tenants, and invented a new 
chimney and boiler for his cottages.” 

“Thank you very much,” returned Fe- 
lise with a magnificent air; “and now 
tell me about the rest of my friends: 
how are Miss Wylde and Georgy?” 

“ Laura has gone in for intellect this sea- 
son, and has receptions for all the long- 
haired people. Nobody has a claim upon 
her sympathies unless he has written a 
book which nobody will buy, discovered 
a planet, found a primeval man, oF be- 
lieves in something naughty and hetero- 
dox. Well-bred, comfortable church peo- 
ple have no chance with her at all. I 
was anxious to go, for I thought the con- 
versation of these monsters must be so 
spirituel, but dear Laura does not seem 
fond of me this year. As for Georgy, 
she is going to marry the curate down at 
Dudley, and they are putting wax can- 
dles on the altar, flowers in the font and 
training the ploughboys to sing responses 
through their noses.” 

“Every one seems well occupied,” re- 
marked Felise. “How far away from 
home you are ! and how do you like 
your first glimpses of America?” 

“I confess myself a little disappointed. 
Nobody has yet committed any of those 
enormities which we attribute to ‘ those 
dreadful Americans.’ However, I trust 
I shall be more fortunate before I go 
home. I have a great many droll stories 
to tell my friends for which I should like 
to have some shadow of a foundation.” 

“ Oh, I dare say you will see some tres- 
pass upon polite rules which will give you 
an opportunity for a shudder,” said Miss 


Clairmont ; “ so you can at once general- 
ize your experience and declare that all 
Americans commit the same fault habit- 
ually. I used to despair when I lived 
in England of finding any person well 
enough informed to understand the en- 
ormous extent of the United States, and 
the possibility that manners and customs 
among the pioneers and in the frontier 
settlements^ did not ^govern the culti- 
vated classes.” 

“No, indeed!” said Mrs. Meredith. 
“At home we all thank God that we 
know nothing whatever about America. 
Ignorance on most points is considered a 
crime in good society, but we pride our- 
selves that this country and its inhab- 
itants are altogether beyond our com- 
prehension;” 

“I intend to admire America and its 
institutions,” said Violet, yawning,/ “I 
am* tired of the old, and intend to wor- 
ship the rising sun.” 

“Ah, you’ll grow wiser, my child,” re- 
joined her mother. “ I have wasted en- 
thusiasm upon rising suns whose days 
have ended in fog and drizzle, and I 
now abide by the old regime. Yes, I 
intend to look down on America.” 

“We do not mind being looked down 
upon by the English,” retorted Felise, 
laughing, “for everybody knows that the 
insular mind regards with contempt all 
nations too large to live on your little 
island.” 

“Ah, petite ! so you set up for an Amer- 
ican ? Who has nationalized you ?” 

“But I was born here, and my French 
blood gives me an ardent love of liberty ; 
and where else is liberty to be found ?” 

“Why do people rave about liberty?” 
mused Mrs. Meredith. “I don’t know 
what they mean. The French idea of 
liberty is to build barricades and guillo- 
tine everybody whom they feel to be bet- 
ter than themselves. At home our radi- 
cals want to pay no taxes and do nothing 
for the support of the royal family. — What 
is liberty in America, Maurice ?” 

Maurice shrugged his shoulders, laugh- 
ed, and looked at Miss Clairmont, to whom 
his aunt repeated her interrogation. 

“ You must read the Declaration of In- 
dependence,” rejoined Felise slyly. 


3 2 


LOVE IN IDLENESS . 


“What is the Declaration of Inde- 
pendence ?” 

“Alas! it would be so uncivil to tell 
you !” 

“Maurice will say nothing,” put in 
Violet. “I suppose he is like Fox, ‘so 
used to the applause of the House of 
Commons he has no wish for that of 
a private company : used to throw dice 
for a thousand pounds, he does not care 
to do it for sixpence.’ But I have heard 
that it was a characteristic of Americans 
to wave their stars and stripes on the 
least opportunity, and to make orations 
in private life.” 

“Yes,” said Maurice, “I too have heard 
that when Henry Clay was on a journey 
through the West he stopped all night at 
an inn, ‘ the world forgetting,’ and, he 
hoped, 4 by the world forgot but his 
host discovered the name of his guest, 
and next morning, when the statesman 
asked for his bill, the landlord begged 
that instead of making it a paltry affair 
of dollars and cents, he would requite 
their hospitality by making him and his 
wife a little speech.” 

“Who was Henry Clay?” 

“No common clay. — Here comes 
Morton.” 

Mrs. Meredith turned, put her glass 
to her eye and regarded the new-comer 
with a supercilious British stare. Mor- 
ton was advancing from the grove of 
willows at the foot of the ground with 
a book in his hand and an umbrella over 
his head. He remarked quietly to Frank 
that he was afraid of this dazzling Amer- 
ican sunshine, but it is to be feared there 
was too hot a fire in his veins at the 
thought of seeing Violet for him to feel 
the fiercest noontide blaze. He had been 
in the woods on the hill, he went on to 
tell Frank, and the flickering light in the 
copsewood coolness had been so much 
more attractive to him than his book that 
he had idled away the entire morning. 

By this time Mrs. Meredith had looked 
at him from head to foot, decided that he 
was sufficiently good form even for her 
fastidious taste, and probably worth cul- 
tivating. Accordingly, she held out a 
little jeweled hand. “ How d’ye do, Mr. 
Morton?” said she, looking up in his 


face demurely. “ Is it not droll that we 
should come across each other here? 
How many centuries is it since I have 
seen you ?” 

“Looking at Mrs. Meredith,” return- 
ed Morton, gravely regarding her, “per- 
suades me it was yesterday I spoke to 
her last ; otherwise I should say twelve 
years.” 

“Twelve years! I must have grown 
very old since then. Alas ! I do not love 
to look in my glass any more, but twelve 
years ago it was my favorite occupation.” 

“ I assure you there is no need of your 
imitating Lai's for thirty years yet.” 

“ Who is Lai’s ? I know nothing about 
her.” 

“She was a beautiful woman, and when 
she grew old she gave her mirror to Ve- 
nus, for she could not bear to look at her- 
self in it.” 

“What a pretty story ! Mr. Morton, I 
am delighted to see you. I always liked 
you, you know, for you were always 
telling me something different from the 
twaddle I have heard all my life. We 
were just speaking about our impressions 
of America. You must like it here. One 
man is as good as another in America, 
they tell me. Now go and speak to my 
daughter. Do you remember her all 
these years ?” 

Morton turned at last, and dared to 
look at Miss Meredith. Did he remem- 
ber her ? He was sure of nothing for 
a few seconds, and felt a dazed sense of 
insecurity in his position* The long col- 
onnades of trees beyond him seemed to 
tower higher and higher into the sky, 
and there was a sound in his ears as 
of innumerable song-birds in unison. 
When he had last seen her face to face 
he had held her in his arms defying Fate, 
and he could have sworn then that not 
a throb of his heart but was answered 
by hers. Had she not tearfully return- 
ed his long gaze, given him back his 
kisses, promised to be faithful to him 
through life and through death? She 
had been a child then, with a child’s 
rosy contours of cheek and throat, a full 
babyish figure, and ways, it must be said, 
a little hoydenish. She had changed, 
but not out of his remembrance. She 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


33 


turned at the sound of her mother’s 
words, and he advanced toward her with 
some indistinguishable murmur of words 
about being glad to meet Miss Meredith. 

“I recollect you very well, Mr. Mor- 
ton,” she said with an easy voice and 
smile, then as carelessly raised her eyes 
to his ; but she met the gleam in his with 
enough emotion to send the color to her 
temples. For one moment he had his 
triumph in her recognition of their mu- 
tual past, then she had shaken off the 
momentary embarrassment. 4 ‘ How long 
it is since I have seen you !” she went on, 
toying with the roses in her belt. “ Twelve 
years ? Then I was sixteen, now I am 
twenty-eight. What a difference !” 

“Precisely,” answered Morton smiling 
— “what a difference !” 

“I was a child then,” resumed Violet, 
“ and liked bread - and - butter and bon- 
bons. I had one passion, a strong one, 
and it was for cream tarts.” 

“And now you no longer care for 
cream tarts?” inquired Morton with an 
air of solicitude. 

“Oh dear! no: I find them very in- 
sipid. In fact, I no longer have a pas- 
sion for anything.” 

“I never liked cream tarts,” he re- 
plied with an inscrutable smile, “but I 
once had a passion for beauty and truth, 
and an unsatisfied craving for the apples 
of Hesperides. Now-a-days, I am so old 
and lazy I would not cross the narrow- 
est sea to pick them all.” 

“ But then you have had so many gold- 
en apples without lifting your hand to the 
branches ! We all know of your literary 
successes, Mr. Morton.” 

He bowed with a deprecating air, and 
passed on to speak to Miss Clairmont, 
but did not succeed in gaining her atten- 
tion, for Felise was listening to Maurice, 
who was giving her an outline of his pro- 
jected wedding-journey. She was, be- 
sides, a little dull to-day, perhaps be- 
cause the wedding was to take every- 
body away from Saintford for a time. 
Morton accordingly went back to Mrs. 
Meredith, who made a place for him be- 
side her on the garden-bench, and began 
to prattle to him in her pretty scrappy 
way, trying at first to flatter him, in the 
3 


way women who know the world declare 
to be most irresistible to men, by talking 
to him about himself. But he seemed so 
bored that she took a wider field and gave 
him the last London gossip, told about a 
peer’s new book, alluded to the ministe- 
rial crisis and the races. “ Did you con- 
gratulate Violet upon her engagement ?” 
she inquired at last with sly malice. 

Morton flushed. “ I did not presume,” 
he returned quietly. “ Do you allow it 
to be talked about?” 

“Talked about? Why not? What 
is the use of unexampled good luck un- 
less it is talked about ? I assure you this 
engagement is well worth talking about. 
It is the prettiest thing of the season — 
so particularly suitable in every way that 
I am quite satisfied with the match, al- 
though I always intended Pansy should 
marry a title. The Wilmots are so well 
off ! There is no end of ready money, 
besides the two estates. The settlements 
are in progress, and I may whisper to 
you as an old friend that the provision 
for Violet is princely — absolutely prince- 
ly. I wish you could see the diamonds 
she is to have reset for her. Really, I 
never knew anything to equal Violet’s 
prospects of happiness.” 

“ Of such is the kingdom of heaven,” 
murmured Morton in his sweetest way. 

“Oh no : I really don’t think that. 
Society isn’t heaven, and what is the use 
of putting on airs as if it were ? I am 
the best of Christians, but I never mix 
up matters. I live in a world where 
wealth and position make all the differ- 
ence in one’s conception between vice 
and virtue. So, not to pretend to be 
better than my neighbors, I adore posi- 
tion and wealth, and consider all people 
who possess neither poor creatures.” 

Morton laughed. “ Did you ever hear 
of Douglas Jerrold, dear Mrs. Meredith ?” 
said he. “He had a little dog who fol- 
lowed him about, and one day a lady 
stopped in the street and stared at the 
animal, ejaculating, ‘ What an ugly little 
beast !’ * Madame,’ returned Jerrold, 

bowing, ‘ I quite agree with you ; still, I 
wonder what, on his side, he is thinking 
of us at this moment ?’ ” 

“ Oh, I catch your moral,” rejoined 


34 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


Mrs. Meredith. “ I know there are plen- 
ty of sharp things to say about the lucky 
people of the world ; and I know that 
wealth and precedence are not given to 
the best and wisest of men and women 
after a competitive examination. Still, 
abuse them as you please, what you would 
best like would be a taste of their cakes 
and ale. You remind me of a bon mot 
of one of those fair, frail women at the 
regent’s court in France. She used to 
wear two bracelets, each containing a 
portrait, one of Charles Edward the Pre- 
tender, the other a picture of our Blessed 
Lord. When people used to ask her 
what possible connection there could be 
between the two, she would reply , 4 Their 
kingdoms are not of this world.’ So 
with you clever people, who believe that 
you are laughing at and despising tem- 
poralities and aspiring toward something 
better, ‘your kingdoms are not of this 
world.’ ” 


CHAPTER VI. 

Morton had, however, some reason 
before he slept for believing that some 
of the rewards he most longed for await- 
ed him in the kingdoms of this world. 
Maurice having started for Oaklands 
toward evening, Morton took his place 
at dinner at the cottage. Afterward, Mrs. 
Meredith and Frank sat together in the 
parlor discussing everything in heaven 
and earth which touched their individual 
interests, while Morton followed Violet 
to the side-piazza and stood beside her 
while she looked at the sunset absorbed 
in her own thoughts. It was a delicious 
evening. The western sky had been 
brilliant with masses of rose and crim- 
son clouds, until now they had moved 
onward to the east, and as the sunset 
light faded the trees gloomed together 
against a background of primrose sky, 
where the evening star shone faintly. 

Miss Meredith rarely hesitated to avail 
herself of unlimited freedom from small 
social duties, and just now, as it was her 
pleasure to be silent, she allowed the twi- 
light to pass like the sunset, and still sat 
absorbed in thought, reverie or dreams 


when the moonlight crept over the lawn. 
She was, to tell the truth, recalling the 
circumstances of her old acquaintance 
with Morton. Who knows how that ear- 
ly gush of feeling seemed to her now after 
so many ardent dreams, such bitter dis- 
appointments, such triflings with feelings 
which ought to have been sacred to her ? 
There was at least nothing to dread when 
she brought back that childish past and 
looked it in the face. Let the affair have 
been as foolish as it might, there was 
sweetness in its folly : that it had been 
abruptly ended was the fault of relent- 
less circumstances. Other men had 
knelt to her, and she had seemed to lis- 
ten to them, beguiling their love of all 
its eloquence : more than that, she had 
sometimes welcomed it with smiles and 
caresses, had fooled them almost to the top 
of their bent, then turned her back upon 
them and beckoned another to her feet. 
These men, whom she had so shameful- 
ly tricked, she hated to meet when time 
had cooled them, but Morton could re- 
proach her with nothing. He had as- 
pired beyond his sphere in loving her, 
but she had met him halfway and for- 
given his presumption : he could only 
blame the pride of Mrs. Meredith and 
the artificial distinctions of a society he 
had long declared that he despised. He 
had loved her in her youth, and no wo- 
man ever forgets her first lover : the only 
roses in her garden that she .counts abso- 
lutely fair and sweet are those which are 
first picked, and for those who come 
afterward to find beautiful blossoms she 
has a smile and a sigh. Yes, she was 
inclined to allow herself a full reminis- 
cence of the summer at Meredith Grange 
twelve years before, since meeting Mor- 
ton face to face again had not degraded 
the picturesque interest of her first love- 
affair. When she did break the silence 
she knew well enough how to fascinate 
and perplex him, and arouse his imagina- 
tion concerning her feelings toward him. 
If she laughed at him a little in her 
heart, it was only that she had accustom- 
ed herself to laugh at any one who was 
thoroughly in earnest : she was skeptical, 
if not by temperament, by experience 
and education, and the idea which his 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


35 


words and manner conveyed, that he had 
been faithful to his early love for her, 
piqued her curiosity. She was well used 
to men of a certain sort of cleverness 
who could pretend to a devotion strong 
enough to penetrate the coldest conscious- 
ness, but to one like Morton, who said lit- 
tle, yet seemed to feel so much in meet- 
ing her again, she was quite unaccus- 
tomed. 

** In fact, when Harry Morton awoke 
next morning he felt as if he had gone 
to bed intoxicated body and soul. He 
had talked with Violet on the piazia for 
an hour; then they had listened while 
Frank Layton sang all his old songs to 
his aunt ; afterward they had entered the 
parlors and spent the evening after the 
easy fashion of the house, Luigi dispen- 
sing tea and iced claret, while Mrs. Mer- 
edith and Violet talked in their wildest 
way, lending a charm to gossip and a 
grace to folly. There was no one mem- 
ory which Morton could decide had been 
the spark to fire his soul, but everything 
seemed to have conspired to make him 
remember things it would have been 
wiser for him to forget, and to forget 
things it would have been wiser to re- 
member. 

He awoke dispirited and hopeless. It 
would have been better, he told himself 
again and again, if he and Violet had not 
been alone together — if they had not for 
ten minutes strolled down the garden- 
path arm in arm. The scene was not 
new : must not she too have remember- 
ed summer nights in the gardens at the 
Grange twelve years ago, when the late 
sun was setting and the sleepy governess 
dozed in the summer-house, and the tutor 
and his favorite pupil wandered up and 
down the shrubberies and flower -bor- 
dered paths, conscious perhaps of the 
placid beauty of the skies, but more 
conscious of the warm tingling pleasure 
of youth and happiness and love ? Im- 
possible that she should have forgotten 
what he remembered so well. What- 
ever influences might have asserted their 
supremacy over her since, she could never 
be so young again, nor so hopeful nor so 
happy. Memory, otherwise colorless to 
Morton, had concentrated itself upon 


that time, and all the capabilities of his 
emotional nature, diffused in other men’s 
lives over a dozen experiences, had ex- 
pended themselves upon his one love- 
affair: in all the years passed since he 
had needed but one slight token, a per- 
fume, a melody, a strain of love-poetry, 
to point with a luminous ray to that 
source of all his light, and make his 
heart throbbingly renew all its old pul- 
sations. 

As soon as he had been dismissed from 
his position of tutor in the family he had 
set to work to gain money and reputation. 
He had not told himself that they would 
win Violet for him, but he was angry 
with himself that he had had so little 
to offer her that he^felt like a house- 
breaker when Mrs. Meredith said to 
him, “And what did you expect to sup- 
port my daughter upon, Mr. Morton, if 
all your pretty schemes were carried out 
and you had run away with her ?” So, 
with a feverish desire to overcome in 
some measure this inequality of position, 
he had worked his hardest against hu- 
miliations and discouragements. If he 
had possessed capital or influence, a lit- 
erary life would have been far from his 
choice, because he wanted to make a for- 
tune in a hurry, and as well because his 
own individuality was sacred to him, and 
he hated to disclose the secrets of his heart 
and mind, as he should if he wrote hon- 
estly, while he loathed the dishonesty of 
invention. But he had no career before 
him except literature, and here, to his 
own surprise almost, he found success : 
not at first, but after long, patient and 
continuous effort. His gains were not 
princely, but he soon attained some por- 
tion of his wish for independence, and 
saw the way to further prosperity. If he 
had really put the winning of Miss Mer- 
edith as the motive of his ambition, how 
could he fail ? Had he known, however, 
the history of these years for her, spent 
by him in arduous toil, all his honest 
endeavor, his strenuous endurance, pa- 
tience, courage and fidelity, must have 
appeared to him to be wasted. 

He heard about her occasionally — of 
her beauty and success and admirers ; of 
her jilting that man, and being jilted by 


3 6 


LOVE IN IDLENESS . 


this one in return. He had no faith in 
gossip, and his mind dwelt upon but one 
phase of these rumors — that, in spite of 
so many chances, she did not marry. 
What could it mean, he asked himself 
again and again, except that she was 
true to her first love ? And in his hope- 
ful moments he dreamed of standing be- 
side her, of telling her of his long service 
in the hope of winning her. He had not 
degraded his memory of her by any lesser 
passions, and could say, 

Oh, a kiss 

Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge ! 

Now, by the jealous queen, of heaven, that kiss 

I carried from thee, dear, and my true lip 

Hath virgin’ d it e’er since. 

But now he had seen her, and in seeing 
her had been reminded over and over 
again that she was not his to win, but the 
promised bride of another. Last night 
he had forgotten it, but to-day it was the 
first thought he encountered, and he left 
his bed and began the labors of the day 
sadly disenchanted. He had made him- 
self no chivalrous creed, but he knew it 
was not a part for an honorable man to 
play, that of injuring the cause of a rival. 

He laughed bitterly to himself at his 
visions of happiness. What had led him 
to imagine that he could be happy ? Had 
not every experience of life taught him 
not to hold out his hand, lest instead of 
gaining bread he should be cut by a sharp 
stone ? He felt master of himself again, 
and decided that he could endure his 
misery, and told himself that his role in 
life must be that of a stoic, all the time 
that he was rapidly packing his boxes 
and deciding to leave Saintford at noon. 
He took some satisfaction even in thrust- 
ing his things pell-mell into his trunk, 
and then ramming them down with a 
walking-stick that he might make more 
room : some hours afterward, when he 
took out his dress-clothes preparatory to 
investing himself in them and dining 
with Frank Layton and the Merediths, 
he wished, with those unavailing regrets 
which characterize most of us in review- 
ing our day’s proceedings, that he had 
not wrinkled them so unalterably. 

In fact, packing one’s clothes, even 
cording one’s luggage, is a mere initia- 


tory step to going away. Morton de- 
cided that bare civility constrained him 
to make farewell visits, and the church- 
clock was only striking eleven when he 
rang at the door of Frank’s cottage, and 
on entering made his way to the library, 
where his friend was writing letters. He 
was alone, no ladies were visible, and 
Frank had a grave face and a sad de- 
meanor, which presaged disaster. “Sit 
down,” said he, pushing a chair to Mor- 
ton. “ Did you ever hear such dreadful 
news ?” 

“ Dreadful news ?” repeated Morton, 
bewildered. 

“ Has nobody told you ? Hubert Clif- 
ford was drowned last night at half-past 
seven. You must know whom I mean — 
the brother of Maurice’s engaged wife.” 
Morton made some vague but proper 
ejaculation, and P'rank went hurriedly 
on, giving his news : “ The morning pa- 
pers have it, and half a dozen despatches 
have come from Oaklands. The house 
was full of visitors, you know, and poor 
Bert was rowing three or four girls on the 
river last night, and left the boat to climb 
the rocks for some flowers. His foot 
slipped and he fell into the water, strik- 
ing his head against the lower ledge. 
He was quite dead when they picked 
him up.” 

“The death will postpone the mar- 
riage, I presume,” said Morton abstoact- 
edly. 

“ I fear it will,” returned Frank sadly. 
“ It is the third time something has oc- 
curred to put it off. Maurice will be ter- 
ribly cut up. He was strongly attached 
to poor . Bert, who was the best fellow 
in the world. I shall ask you to find 
my aunt, Morton : I have some letters to 
write, and must go up and tell Miss Clair- 
mont our bad news. We have been dis- 
cussing our plans, for everything is upset. 
You know we were to start on Monday 
for Oaklands ; the wedding was to come 
off on Wednesday ; we were to remain 
a week, and then join Maurice and his 
wife and travel with them for a time, and 
return here together.” 

“What do you think of doing now?” 

“The ladies are so overcome by the 
heat they dislike the idea of travel, and 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


37 


I have no doubt but Maurice will be back 
shortly. Altogether, I am in favor of 
remaining here and putting off our jour- 
ney until September.” 

‘‘So Mrs. Meredith and her daughter 
will remain in Saintford ?” observed Mor- 
ton in a dreamy sort of way. Days like 
yesterday, then, were to go on indefinite- 
ly, blissful as blue skies, warm airs and 
sweet ruinous idleness could make them ! 
It required his strongest resolution to stop 
his mental balancing of expediencies and 
plausibilities, and announce his approach- 
ing departure to his friend, who received 
the news with that unconcern which most 
of us have the luck to see in others when 
we are conscious of bravely managing 
the supreme temptation of our lives, and 
long for a little aid or sympathy. 

Yet Frank realized very well the na- 
ture of Morton’s struggle respecting Vio- 
let, and thought the better of him for his 
discretion in going away from Saintford 
at once. But he was too afraid of being 
intrusive to express his feelings ; so with 
a curt farewell he shook hands with his 
visitor, and, parting the curtains, point- 
ed out the figure of Miss Meredith on 
the lawn, and bade him go and make 
his adieux to her as she sat reading be- 
neath the willows. Morton obeyed him, 
making his way to her slowly across the 
lawn and garden. He tried to feel that 
he was quite cool and collected, and well 
able to read any problem that the co- 
quetry of a woman might, offer him for 
solution ; but, on the contrary, he was 
excited beyond any capacity for calm 
decision. 

Violet sat beneath the willows, their 
delicate sprays making a setting for her 
face as she drew the light branches down, 
playing with them involuntarily as she 
read. She was dressed in thin white, 
the lace at the neck clasped by a sap- 
phire, and her perfect feet in blue silk 
slippers rested on the little King Charles, 
who sulked at the burden she forced 
him to bear. She looked up at Morton 
so cool and self-possessed that her indif- 
ference, coming in contact with his heroic 
passion, almost enraged him. 

“ Good-morning,” said she. “ Is it not 
too warm to live ?” 


‘‘Yes : this seems terribly warm for an 
Englishwoman, who thinks at home the 
heat is scorching if the glass stands at 
eighty.” 

“ I am reading your last novel,” she 
remarked, nodding and smiling. 41 1 
found it in Frank’s bookcase an hour 
ago.” 

“ Don’t waste any time on it : it won’t 
repay you.” 

‘‘Don’t undeceive me. I think it so 
clever. I have been wondering how you 
know so much about love. Is it subject- 
ive or objective knowledge ?” 

Morton’s dark face grew darker. He 
did not answer her, and she went on read- 
ing voraciously. 

‘‘Where in the world did you get your 
ideas about love?” she demanded again 
presently, finishing her chapter. 

‘‘Entirely from books,” he returned 
coolly. “ I looked out its definition in 
the dictionary, and afterward read Jane 
Eyre." 

She yawned and closed her book. “ I 
suppose you have heard the shocking 
news about Miss Clifford’s brother,” 
said she. ‘‘The wedding is off for the 
present, I presume. Is not Maurice 
lucky to marry such a tremendous heir- 
ess as his bride is turning out to be ? 
She is the only child now.” 

‘‘Well, certainly, regarded from that 
point of view, it is a good thing to get 
rid of one’s relations. At first it foolish- 
ly occurred to me that Miss Clifford was 
to be pitied.” 

‘‘Oh, I am not altogether heartless. I 
merely regarded the matter from a stand- 
point of absolute disinterestedness. But 
have you heard that we are to stay here 
until the heat of the season has passed ? 
We expect Maurice to come back : will 
it not be delightful ?” 

“ I trust so.” 

His tone was peculiar, and Violet look- 
ed at him sharply. 

“ I am going up to spend the morning 
with Miss Clairmont,” said she, making 
a motion to rise. “ The carriage was or- 
dered at twelve : you can come with me.” 

“No,” returned Morton, sitting down 
beside her and speaking entreatingly, 
‘‘do not go away yet. This is my last 


33 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


morning in Saintford : I shall never 
again be alone with you. Give an hour 
to me.” 

‘‘But why are you leaving Saintford?” 

‘‘Because it is better for me to go.” 

‘‘Say that you are leaving the place 
because we came. That is the truth of 
the matter.” 

“ I go away because it is right for me 
to go,” he answered again, his eyes meet- 
ing hers. ‘‘You had better not try to keep 
me here,” he added with a bitter laugh as 
he saw entreaty in her face, ‘‘I am not 
likely to be wise or prudent if I stay.” 

‘‘But it is absurd for you to think of 
going,” said Violet in a quick, earnest 
way. “ It was pleasant for me to find my 
old friend here. Pleasures rarely come to 
me now-a-days. Why must you spoil this 
for me ?” 

‘‘God knows,” cried Morton, “pleas- 
ures are not in my way. It is because 
seeing you is such supreme pleasure that 
I am obliged to renounce it. It is hard 
discipline even for me, who am used to 
hard discipline. I can swear that, Miss 
Meredith.” 

“I do not believe in hard discipline,” 
she rejoined, smiling at him lazily. “You 
may gain the kingdom of heaven by it, 
but yop don’t know that for certain, 
while you are sure of losing the king- 
dom of earth. I will not have you go 
away,” she went on, looking at him with 
a glance too dallying and dangerous for 
him to meet coolly — “ I will not have it , 
I say y 

They were silent, but she kept her eyes 
upon him still, and he continued to stare 
dumbly into her face. She was holding 
a branch of the drooping willow in her 
fingers, and struck him lightly with it 
across the back of his hand. “Come,” 
said she, springing up and starting for- 
ward, “ I will change my dress and you 
shall go with me to Miss Clairmont’s. 
She will sing to us. Come,” she cried 
again, standing on the terrace a little 
above him and waving her hand. 

He advanced with a stride and stood 
beside her. “I will follow you any- 
where,” he said with strong emotion, 
“if, after what I tell you, you bid me 
‘ Come.’ I was going away because — 


because I love you so dearly still that to 
see you, knowing all the time I could be 
nothing to you, would drive me mad. 
Let me stay with a chance of your being 
to me what you promised to be once, 
and I will stay. But if you mean to 
marry that boy — if you can give me 
nothing of what I want — for God’s 
sake, Violet, let me go — the sooner the 
better.” 

She listened with a drooping, half- 
averted face, without change either of 
features or color. Then came a brief 
silence, which Morton’s heart-beats meas- 
ured heavily. At last she moved slowly 
along the terrace and pulled a rose and 
myrtle from a vase. “ Put that in your but- 
tonhole,” she said, stealing a little glance 
at his grim face, and smiling and dimp- 
ling. “You are going to see La Belle 
Clairmont, and you must deck yourself 
accordingly. I am so glad there is no 
need of your going away !” 


CHAPTER VII. 

Frank and his guests were reading 
their papers and letters at breakfast one 
warm morning a fortnight later when 
Maurice descended the stairs with his 
swift, half - boyish bound, entered the 
room, shook hands with Frank, kissed 
his aunt, and, extending two fingers to 
Violet, ordered Luigi to bring him some 
iced coffee. These proceedings, although 
not irregular in themselves, were some- 
what disconcerting to his family, who be- 
lieved him to be some hundreds of miles 
away. 

Frank stared at him helplessly. “My 
dear fellow,” he exclaimed, “I know the 
first duty required of a host is not to 
make himself a bore, yet, try to suppress 
my curiosity as I may, I can’t help won- 
dering how the deuce you got here.” 

“ By the last train from New York last 
night,” returned Maurice. — “ Luigi, some 
more ice.” 

“ Where did you sleep ?” 

“Here, in my most comfortable bach- 
elor bedroom.” 

“I’ll swear you weren’t here at twelve 
o’clock,” said Frank, laughing, “and 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


how you got in after that is a mystery 
to me.” 

‘‘Allow me to explain,” observed Mau- 
rice with bland hauteur. “ I came on 
from Oaklands with Mr. Clifford and 
Rosamond yesterday : they left by the 
night-boat for Newport. I took the eight 
o’clock express, which broke down at 
Norwalk, and we did not reach Bridge- 
ford until half-past twelve.” 

“ Did you get a carriage there ?” 

‘‘Not one was to be procured.” 

“ How did you reach Saintford ?” 

‘‘I walked.” 

“ What did you do with your luggage ?” 

“ My secretary, Perkins, is with me. I 
sent him to a hotel in Bridgeford with 
my traps.” 

‘‘I am so sorry!” cried Frank in dis- 
may. “ I might so easily have sent for 
you had I but known. Then to think 
after your four-mile tramp of your hav- 
ing no supper !” 

“ Oh, but I did, though. Ask Luigi if 
I slept fasting.” 

‘‘Ah, Luigi is in the plot? He let you 
in ?” 

“ Luigi was on the back lawn with a 
guitar,” said Maurice with a chuckle at 
the remembrance of the serenade he had 
interrupted. ‘‘He admitted me of course. 
Depend upon it, Frank, your cook be- 
lieves in burglars this morning. I de- 
voured everything in the larder. It was 
not a time for unlimited fastidiousness : 
I was too hungry to hesitate before any- 
thing that could be eaten.” 

‘‘Tell us what you ate,” whispered 
Mrs. Meredith with a morbid curiosity, 
as if she expected details of a cannibal- 
istic feast. 

‘‘A dish of lobster-salad,” recounted 
Maurice gravely, ‘‘evidently untouched 
from your dinner ; a huge pate ; some 
strawberries, with a quart or more of 
cream ; several pounds, I should suppose, 
of rich fruit-cake. Unsatisfied with this, 
I sent Luigi foraging again, and he found 
me some crackers, a bottle of salad-dress- 
ing, and three boxes of sardines.” 

‘‘And you ate them, salad-dressing 
and all?” 

“ Everything, except the tin boxes and 
the glass bottle.” 


39 

“ Of course you never closed your eyes 
afterward.” 

“ On the contrary, I slept like a cherub, 
my dear aunt.” 

‘‘But how do you feel this morning?” 
she inquired with ghastly concern. 

‘‘Rather grim and ogreish, but don’t 
blame my supper for that, as I was still 
worse yesterday.” 

44 Why on earth did you not wake me 
up?” inquired Frank, deeply injured. 
‘‘ There was not a drop of wine out. All 
the keys were in my room.” 

“ I wanted no wine, but I did feel a de- 
sire to see you, so I opened your door as I 
stole up to bed, and stood over you with 
a candle a full quarter of an hour.” 

‘‘A new Cupid and Psyche,” remark- 
ed Violet, looking up from her letters. 
‘‘I wish I could have seen you.” 

44 Frank was quite a pretty picture, but 
I assure you I lent no poetry to the scene. 
I was a perfect blackamoor after my 
tramp through the dust. Slumber gives 
you back your baby-face, Frank : I mis- 
trusted what you were dreaming about.” 

44 1 wish I had waked up,” said Frank, 
laughing. ‘‘I am not used to the honor 
of having my beauty-sleep watched by 
Psyches of any sex. If you had left a 
patch of wax on my pillow, I might have 
had a pleasant hour of mystery this 
morning.” 

‘‘And how,” inquired Violet delibe- 
rately, ‘‘is the fair Rosamond, cousin 
Maurice ? A sort of mourning bride isn’t 
she, by the way ?” 

44 Quite well,” returned Maurice briefly. 
‘‘She requested me to give you these 
notes.” And he produced from his pock- 
et-book three envelopes, all directed in a 
large slanting hand and heavily bordered 
with black. 

44 She says nothing about your plans,” 
remarked Mrs. Meredith, looking up at 
her nephew from the perusal of hers. 
‘‘When shall you be married now?” 

‘‘I have no idea. I expect to serve 
Jacob’s time.” 

44 1 could not express to you by letter, 
Maurice, how grieved were both Violet 
and I at the calamity which broke up 
your happy plans. It was so sad a thing 
for the Cliffords — then the consequent 


40 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


disappointment to yourself. Let me 
offer — ” 

“ I can bear calamities better than con- 
dolences,” cried Maurice, starting up. 
“ It has been a most painful time to me. 
I cannot speak of it yet. — Frank, if you 
are through breakfast, suppose we take a 
turn in the garden ?” 

But not even Frank was to hear any- 
thing of his brother’s grief for his friend 
or of his disappointment at his postponed 
wedding-day. Yet Maurice was full of 
talk, and, the other taking the cue, the 
two discussed most matters within the 
province of the newspapers as they pass- 
ed to and fro on the graveled paths ; and 
although such speech was barren enough, 
it was better for Maurice than either un- 
constrained confidence or silence. He 
was quite out of temper with Rosamond 
in particular and fate in general, and had 
he relieved himself of all his thoughts, 
he might have said something better left 
undefined even to his innermost consci- 
ousness. He was in the habit of making 
a decision as to the course he contem- 
plated taking, and then adjusting cir- 
cumstances to suit. Though not in the 
least in love, he had regarded the idea 
of wedlock with complacency, and had 
arranged for a summer of pleasant trav- 
el, its monotony varied by visits to polit- 
ical friends whose interest in him and his 
promised wife was both warm and famil- 
iar. What made the occasion peculiarly 
auspicious for his marriage was the fact 
of its being the “ off year.” Nothing was 
doing in politics, and Maurice would 
have needed to give up no excitements 
in order to yield himself thoroughly to 
the delassements of early married life. 

The death of young Clifford had alter- 
ed all his plans. After the horror of the 
fresh catastrophe had changed into the 
life of quiet mourning — which, though 
taking up its broken existence sorrowful- 
ly, nevertheless does take up hopes and 
interests again — he had urged Rosamond 
to consent to a quiet marriage ceremony, 
after which, with Secretary Clifford, they 
would go to England and Scotland for 
the summer. But Miss Clifford was far 
too well aware of the necessities of strict 
etiquette at this juncture to yield any- 


thing to the solicitations of a lover, no 
matter how eloquent. She declined to 
be married under six months — “ by Christ- 
mas perhaps,” she added with downcast 
eyes as she arranged the folds of her 
fresh crepe — and she had governed too 
long not to govern now, even though her 
will came in conflict with the wishes of 
the most inflexible of men. There had 
been, in truth, a strife for mastery be- 
tween them, and the advantage had not 
lain with Maurice. Like most men, he 
enjoyed the conviction that he could 
judge much better for the woman who 
loved him than she could judge for her- 
self, and now in his secret heart he was 
accusing her of that most unpardonable 
of feminine faults, coldness, since in this 
period of bitter sorrow she could not un- 
derstand that her husband’s arms would 
be her best refuge, her sweetest comfort. 
Besides, he instinctively divined why his 
claims were set aside. Miss Clifford had 
all her life been a very great lady, and 
her marriage must be a social event, and 
could not be performed hastily and pri- 
vately like an ordinary marriage, since 
it was to crown a brilliant career with 
still greater eclat. Insensible himself to 
any fascination in the pageantry attend- 
ing the ceremonial, which, man-like, he 
considered the unessential accompani- 
ment of an event of vital importance, 
his pride was wounded that the woman 
whom he had chosen should not be will- 
ing to forget her little vanities when she 
was to marry him. So, altogether, Mau- 
rice was out of spirits, and in returning 
to Saintford was quite indisposed to al- 
lude freely to his change of plans. He 
had refused to accompany the Cliffords 
and Herberts to Newport, but had felt 
eager to reach his brother’s, although he 
had not yet defined to himself the sort 
of comfort he expected to meet there. 

The hall-clock struck the half hour, 
£yid Frank looked at his watch, which 
pointed to half-past eleven. 

“ Don’t mind me,” said Maurice, paus- 
ing abruptly in their walk. ‘‘You want 
to go to Miss Clairmont’s ?” 

“ I had thought of going at this time.” 

“ If it is not too point-blank a question, 
how do you proceed in your wooing?” 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


4i 


Frank shrugged his shoulders. “I 
wish I knew myself, in order that I 
might tell you,” he exclaimed with a 
slight grimace. 

“As if a man could not tell in a thou- 
sand different ways if a woman loves 
him !” 

Frank stared at his brother. “ I wish,” 
said he under his breath, “that I had a 
quarter of your audacity.” 

“My audacity!” said Maurice, laugh- 
ing. “My audacity at its height never 
began to equal your beginnings. Go 
along with you !” and he waved his 
hand toward the gate. “ I wish you 
would win her at once. I’m sure she 
must be fond of you, and I confess I 
quite long for such a sweet, dear, be- 
wilderingly pretty sister-in-law. She is 
the sort of woman who rests me. I 
could sit and watch her all day, and 
feel highly entertained if she gave me a 
glance and smile and said yes or no at 
intervals. If you weren’t bound there 
this morning, I believe I should intrude 
on her myself : she could draw this surly 
humor out of me.” 

“Poor old fellow !” said Frank warm- 
ly, throwing his arm over his brother’s 
shoulder. “Go up there in my place. 
I’m so awfully sorry for you !” 

“Stuff! Go along!” And Frank 
went. 

Maurice watched him issue from the 
little side-gate, and for want of some- 
thing better to think about his thoughts 
vagrantly followed him up the hill and 
into Mrs. Knight’s pretty blue morning- 
room. He had been there so frequently 
before he left for Oaklands that it re- 
quired scant effort of memory to bring 
the picture before him. It was a simple 
but pretty room, always fragrant with 
flowers and suggestive of Felise, from 
the music-strewn piano to the workbox 
on the table. She would be sitting in a 
certain low chair beside her aunt, and 
Frank would enter and wake her out 
of the sweet abstraction of her maiden 
dreams over her sewing. Frank was 
sure to do his part well there, Maurice 
said to himself. The influences of love- 
making generally mould a man into 
something less admirable than his best 


words and ways, but Frank could keep 
his dignity even through such an ordeal 
of absurd homage and foolish duties. 
Foolish and absurd though they were, 
no doubt under right circumstances they 
might be very pleasant, very sweet. 

It may have been from a wish to cer- 
tify these impressions of Miss Clairmont 
after an absence of nearly three weeks 
that Maurice himself mounted the hill 
and entered Mr. Knight’s gate four hours 
later. He found only Mr. Knight down 
stairs, but accepted with alacrity that 
gentleman’s invitation to dinner ; and Fe- 
lise, after loitering over her toilette in the 
hope of being too late for hot soup on 
a summer’s day, descended to find the 
meal tolerably advanced, and Maurice 
and her uncle talking politics vociferous- 
ly over the fish. She listened dreamily 
as she ate her dinner, and felt like a 
little girl, for Maurice scarcely looked 
at her or spoke to her during the entire 
meal. Mrs. Knight put in a word now 
and then, asking the meaning of this or 
that, as women love to do when great 
subjects are under discussion, thus show- 
ing their capacity for grappling with and 
easily mastering what men call problems 
of state; demanding reasons, then fail- 
ing to grope through processes of thought 
which compel the reasons; deciding ex 
cathedra on the right or wrong of the 
matter, and giving counsel from a high- 
er stand-point than the stupid logical 
male creature has been able to arrive at 
from his knowledge of his own imperfec- 
tions and his perception of the faultiness 
of mankind in general. 

They all went on the piazza after din- 
ner, and while they were taking coffee 
the pony - carriage came round and Zoo- 
Zoo ran down the steps and jumped into 
it, barking joyfully, while the man stood 
waiting at the horse’s head holding the 
reins. 

“ Are you going to drive ?” asked Mau- 
rice, going over to Felise and taking her 
coffee-cup from her hand. 

“ I did tell Thomas I should drive after 
dinner,” she returned with a timid ques- 
tioning look at her aunt, “but perhaps I 
shall not go, after all.” 

I “ Why not ?” he demanded. “Because 


42 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


I am here ? I was hoping you would in- 
vite me to accompany you.” 

Felise looked at her aunt again. 

‘‘Suppose you drive Mr. Layton to the 
beach, Felise ?” said Mrs. Knight tran- 
quilly. “ It is pleasant there at this time 
of day. — I am sure you will take good 
care of her,” she added to Maurice with 
a smile, “ especially if I tell you that she 
never did any gentleman such an honor 
before.” 

“ I will take the best care of her,” he 
returned gravely, and gathered up Miss 
Clairmont’s hat, gloves and wrappings 
from the hands of Rachel, who appeared 
with them in the doorway. “ I am the 
safest kind of an old gentleman. It is 
not in the least my own fault that I have 
not yet passed ‘de l’allegro sautillant du 
celibataire au grave andante du pere de 
famille.’ ” 

Felise put on her hat and gloves, was 
handed into the low carriage, and the 
two set off. She was a little embarrass- 
ed and altogether speechless, while Mau- 
rice, sitting beside her with Zoo - Zoo on 
his knees, was extremely amused by 
her silence, divining its reason at once. 
He tried to gain a glimpse of her face, 
but her wide-brimmed hat thwarted his 
efforts. 

‘‘Aren’t you going to speak to me ?” he 
asked finally. ‘‘You have not paid me 
the slightest attention to-day.” 

She looked up for a moment smiling 
and dimpling, but speech was farther 
off than ever when she met his smiling 
glance. 

‘‘Are you sorry I have come back 
again ?” 

“ Oh no,” she exclaimed heartily ; then 
half ashamed of her dullness, and half 
feeling that it was inexcusable for her 
not to have told him before this of her 
sincere regret for the occasion of his 
coming back, she blushed so deeply that 
he could even see the flush upon the 
neck and arms that showed through the 
transparent muslin of her dress. 

‘‘I am afraid,” said he, piqued, ‘‘that 
I have presumed too much in asking to 
accompany you?” 

‘‘Ah, do not think that,” cried Felise 
in distress. ‘‘I am glad, very glad, to 


have you come. I do not know why I 
am so dull to-day, but — but — ” 

“ I wonder,” said he with a short laugh, 
‘‘if you are not a little afraid of me this 
afternoon ? I knew that I felt like the 
traditional ogre who devours little girls, 
but I did not know that I looked like 
him.” She laughed and blushed again. 
Maurice took the reins from her hands. 
44 Let me drive you : I don’t trust your 
horse’s instinct, as you appear to do. I 
know the way to the beach. Don’t ever 
be afraid of me again, my dear child. 
You have no need to be, I assure you. 
Do you know, I have been longing to 
see you all day ? I envied Frank when 
he set off for his visit this morning.” 

‘‘Why did you not come too?” she 
asked. 

“ I wanted you all to myself. I am the 
most selfish fellow. Besides, Frank is a 
youngster compared with me, and must 
have his innings. I took all mine years 
ago. Does he spend all his mornings with 
you ? What do you find to talk about?” 

“I forget.” 

‘‘Which is a woman’s formula for say- 
ing ‘ I don’t choose to tell.’ But what did 
you talk about this morning?” 

‘‘Nothing very wise. I was finishing 
a dress, and I teased your brother and 
Aunt Laura into giving me ideas for 
trimming it.” 

“ Peaceful domestic scene !” said Mau- 
rice, looking at her with a keen glance. 
‘‘Was it the dress you are wearing?” 

‘‘No, a blue muslin. We went shop- 
ping the other day in Bridgeford, and 
Mr. Frank Layton chose it for me.” 

“What a paradise it all seems!” ex- 
claimed Maurice abruptly. “But I feel 
very unparadisiacal myself.” 

“ I wish,” murmured Felise, looking up 
into his suddenly-clouded face with her 
wistful glance — “I wish I dared say 
something to comfort you. I know that 
you have had a great grief, and that it 
resulted in a bitter disappointment for 
yourself.” 

“Yes, poor Bert was my dear friend. 
He was a good fellow, not of brilliant 
parts, but thoroughly honest and sincere. 
’Tis a heavy blow to poor Clifford. Rosa- 
mond is the only child he has now.” 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


43 


“I wish,” said Felise earnestly, ‘‘that 
your marriage need not have been de- 
layed.” 

“So do I,” he burst out impetuously. 
“ It was a great mistake for Rosamond 
to put it off again. We have been en- 
gaged eighteen months, and no obstacle 
existed to our marriage in six weeks after 
I offered myself.” 

Maurice had apparently forgotten that 
he had never pressed Rosamond to set a 
limit to their engagement until some eight 
months after his proposal. He had, in 
fact, been so busy he had forgotten about 
it until that time. 

“The months will soon pass,” said Fe- 
lise with tenderness in her voice : “ Christ- 
mas will soon be here.” 

Her face was so pathetic and her tone 
so eloquent of commiseration that he 
could not restrain his amusement. 

“ How good you are !” he said warmly. 
“You seem actually to take my troubles 
to heart. I am afraid you look at my 
position through the rose-colored atmo- 
sphere of early youth, and regard my 
marriage prospects in a more romantic 
light than they deserve. Do you then 
consider me a desperate lover full of 
burning regrets for his paradise missed ?” 
She was confused, and dropped her glance 
beneath his. “ That side of life is over for 
me,” he continued, his voice sinking al- 
most to a whisper — “over, without my 
having availed myself of its enjoyments. 
I am not in love, so you must not waste 
that sweet pity upon me. Rosamond 
knows I am not in love. I have made 
no such professions. I am marrying into 
a connection which is delightful to me, as 
well as suitable to my position, but my 
dreams of wedded life have little to do 
with private happiness. It is the privi- 
lege of youth to have marriage an ex- 
cuse for surrender to the sweet deliriums 
of love. I am too old. My future wife 
regards me as I do her. Of course, after 
a man is forty he cannot expect a woman 
to love him otherwise than soberly and 
sensibly. Can he, Miss Clairmont?” 

“I do not know,” exclaimed Felise, 
looking a little bewildered : “ I have 
never thought about it.” 

“ I should like to have you and Miss 


Clifford know each other,” he remarked 
with a mental glance ahead into the 
pleasant probabilities of their future in- 
tercourse as sisters-in-law. “ Rosamond 
is rather cold and grand at first, but those 
who know her recognize that at heart she 
is a whole-souled, noble woman, with 
qualities far surpassing the average en- 
dowments of her sex. She is a trifle 
spoiled by society. She is now thirty- 
two, and ever since she was fifteen has 
been at the head of her father’s house, 
both here and when he was minister 
abroad. There are few women of any 
position who have greater social expe- 
rience. You would be sure to please 
her, and I really think you would grow 
to like her sincerely.” 

Felise smiled: she was ready to love 
Miss Clifford dearly. Maurice drove 
rapidly along the fern - bordered lane : 
it was a pleasant road, running between 
sunshiny fields of ripening grain, sloping 
away toward green-aisled forests on the 
one hand, which here and there parting 
disclosed glimpses of the sea between the 
tranquil line of woods. They soon reach- 
ed the beach, a long strip of white shin- 
ing sands extending for three miles along 
the placid Sound. Maurice threw the 
lines over the pony’s back as he stood 
knee -deep in sand, and left him to nib- 
ble at the coarse grass that grew on the 
knoll above him ; then, taking the afghan 
from the carriage, he flung it over his 
arm and led Felise down to the shore. 
Zoo -Zoo had leaped out the moment 
they came in sight of the water, and 
was now barking with exuberant delight 
at the waves that came crawling up to 
lick his feet. 

“This is pleasant,” observed Maurice 
when he had spread out the afghan on 
the sand and they had seated themselves 
upon it. “Let us stay here for hours. 
In fact, I never wish to go away.” 

Felise did not answer: she was look- 
ing across the sea, her head resting on 
her hands as she crossed her arms on 
her knees. “We all have some sympa- 
thies which are the result of our temper- 
ament and our experiences,” he contin- 
ued, stretching himself full length at her 
I feet. “Mine are for the ocean : nothing 


44 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


else in Nature perfectly soothes me. I 
hope when my time comes I may hear 
the billows breaking on the shore as I 
lie dying.” 

She started violently and looked at 
him, terrified for a moment ; then reas- 
sured, apparently, with a half smile she 
went back to her old position and watch- 
ed the white sails going up and down. 

‘‘What do you like best?” he asked, 
his eyes fixed vaguely on her face. “ Tell 
me about yourself. Why are you so 
silent with me?” 

‘‘If,” she said, looking timidly at him 
— ‘‘if I am silent with you, Mr. Layton, 
it is because you make me think about 
yourself : I am all the time thinking about 
you and wondering — ” 

She spoke with exquisite grace, but 
with the unconsciousness of a child. But 
it was well for her composure, perhaps, 
that she did not meet the kindling glance 
of the man beside her, nor see the glow 
on his cheek. For Maurice, who was not 
yet cool enough to hear with serenity that 
this beautiful, coy young creature thought 
frequently of him, turned his head away 
and asked her in an indifferent voice 
where she was born. 

‘‘We love best what we love first,” 
said he. “ It was in the south of France 
you spent your early life, I believe ?” 

‘‘I was born here in Saintford,” re- 
turned Felise — ‘‘in the very room where 
I sleep now. My father was attached to 
the French embassy at Washington, and 
my mother met him there, and they were 
married three months afterward. But 
he died in less than a year, and my 
grandpapa brought her back here to her 
old home, and in a little while I was born. 
She stayed here with me until I was more 
than six years old : then she took me to 
France to visit the Clairmonts, and she 
fell sick and died. Is it not strange? 
She is buried there among papa’s peo- 
ple, while he sleeps here in the village 
churchyard with hers.” 

‘‘You must have some recollection of 
your mother.” 

‘‘Oh yes,” said Felise, but she would 
say no more. She could never forget 
those weeks when her little feet took 
such weary pilgrimages up stairs and 


down, in doors and out doors, anywhere 
and everywhere where she had once seen 
her mother in that crumbling old cha- 
teau, and her heart burst with the agony 
of the questless search. 

“ What became of you, poor little girl ?” 
he asked. 

“ Old Mademoiselle de Clairmont — ‘ la 
ma’amselle,’ as we all called her — stay- 
ed on in the old chateau, and I lived with 
her. She had been my father’s aunt, and 
was old, very old. Then Madame de 
Ferrars was often there, papa’s sister: 
she was sad — she was always weeping 
because her husband did not love her 
and was cruel to her, and her three chil- 
dren were dead. They were good to me, 
but many of the servants seemed to love 
me better. In bright weather I was al- 
ways out of doors when I had nothing to 
do, and when it was wet or cold old Rene 
used to go about the chateau with me, 
telling me stories about the faded, desert- 
ed rooms, the portraits, tapestries and em- 
broideries. The Clairmonts were never # 
very wonderful people, but they had lived 
their lives out there for many, many gen- 
erations, and it seemed to me then that 
no lives had ever been richer in romance 
and pathos. Indeed, the pathos was the 
most, for however bright and gay their 
early life had been, it was all the same 
at the end : they grew old and died, and 
were forgotten except by poor old Rene.” 

She was silent for a moment, then con- 
tinued with some enthusiasm : ‘‘You ask 
me what I like best. I think I never loved 
anything better than the old gardens at 
Clairmont. I long for them now in the 
cold, desolate winter. I have never seen 
such sunlight since as shone there : it 
was more golden, more peaceful, than 
this radiant sunlight here. I often find 
myself thinking of the forest there : it 
was full of beautiful mysteries to me, 
with its whisperings and sighings. Near- 
er the terrace the roses trailed over the 
white walls and hung from the urns, and 
even twined around the statues. Those 
statues used to awe me : some of them 
lay broken on the ground, others had 
been snapped in two by the coil of the 
heavy vines about them, but were still 
upheld in their places, and looked at me 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


45 


with their se’aled, beautiful dead faces as 
if they would not complain. Oh, those 
decayed old gardens, all unpruned and 
uncared-for, all overrun with vines and 
creepers, were very beautiful to me as a 
child. I have seen a great deal of the 
world since, but I have seen nothing that 
satisfied me so well as my old nook on 
the terrace, with the sun shining on the 
lizards, and the dial, and the roses ; and 
all set to a sort of music by the moan of 
the trees.” 

‘‘Who has the old chateau now ?” 

“ I never asked : it is enough for me to 
remember that the Clairmonts no longer 
own it. I am quite the last of the name, 
and when old ma’amselle died I had to 
give up my kingdom for ever : the old 
chateau was sold to pay her debts. I 
have no money from my father’s family 
— nor indeed very much from my moth- 
er,” she added laughing. “ I have only 
five hundred a year.” 

She was silent, regarding him frankly, 
then suddenly burst out laughing mer- 
rily. ‘‘I have told you everything now 
about myself,” said she. “ How could I 
talk so much ?” 

‘‘Oh, go on, do go on!” he rejoined, 
quite in earnest. “ I want to hear about 
everything you have ever done.” 

‘‘There is nothing more to tell,” she 
cried. 

“ Oh, but there is, though,” he said with 
a sudden intensity of manner. “ You too 
have stood on the threshold of marriage, 
and have yourself inflicted bitter disap- 
pointment.” 

She grew grave. “ That was very dif- 
ferent from yours,” she returned with 
some effort. ‘‘Your engagement is not 
broken : its consummation is merely post- 
poned.” 

44 Do you mind my alluding to your en- 
gagement ?” he asked, giving her a keen 
look. She shook her head, but grew a 
little reserved. ‘‘Few women could have 
refused Ralph,” he pursued. ‘‘He is a 
thorough woman’s ideal man — an Apol- 
lo indeed, well born, well bred, yet with 
none of the vices of his order: highly 
educated, yet as pious as an old woman, 
and goes to church on week-days. How 
could you fail to appreciate him ?” Fe- 


lise looked very disdainful. ‘‘As for my- 
self,” resumed Maurice, ‘‘I have a vir- 
tuous pride when I remember he is my 
first cousin. He has an ugly temper, but 
then he is so handsome. Don’t you call 
him handsomer than either Frank or my- 
self, Miss Clairmont?” 

He had bared his head, and the south 
wind had ruffled his dark hair and blown 
it back from his temples : his eyes ex- 
pressed both fire and mischief, and his 
smile was full of amusement. Felise 
laughed, but made no confessions or 
comparisons. 

‘‘I see,” said Maurice, “that you will 
not commit yourself. But is not Wylde 
a finished gentleman ?’ 

“Oh yes.” 

“Charitable and pious and orthodox 
as one of Miss Yonge’s heroes ?” 

“ He certainly is.” 

“Why, then, did you not love such a 
paragon?” She laughed. “Well, why 
not?” he demanded. 

“How do you know I did not love him ?’ 

“ Had you loved him you would have 
married him, and I should not be sitting 
at your feet this happy afternoon.” 

“Perhaps so,” returned Felise with 
rising color, “but you surprise me by 
seeming to consider love an essential 
for marriage, when you just told me — ” 

“ Ah !” cried Maurice roused, “ you are 
aggressive, mademoiselle. You think I 
am marrying without love, and that I 
urge such marriages on other men. You 
do not know me. I loved with all my 
heart once — with a passion that tears me 
when I think of it : my love was for my 
mother. You err, err much, if you be- 
lieve me to be cold or heartless. I am 
neither ; so much the reverse, in fact, 
that what 'alone saved me from drifting 
into a meaningless life was good hard 
work. I have two natures — one all feel- 
ing, the other all intellectual activity. I 
am not like other men : I cannot com- 
bine them. Enjoyment, calm content, 
renounced me years and years ago. I 
have filled my life with other interests 
than love-making. Rosamond under- 
stands this, and is satisfied with my views. 
I may despise the sweet fooleries of lovers, 
yet I shall make an -excellent husband. 


46 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


I dare say two years after I am married 
I shall love my wife as well as even your 
romantic heart could desire.” Felise was 
looking at him in a way that perplexed 
him : her lips were smiling, but her eyes 
were sad. 44 1 see you do not believe me,” 
he went on more calmly, 44 but you don’t 
quite know me yet. I admire Rosamond 
already, and be a woman what she may, 
an honorable man can yield no less to 
the wife who shares his existence than 
his sacredest confidence, his supremest 
tenderness.” 

But Felise had dropped her eyes and 
maintained a disconcerting silence. 

“What are you thinking of ?” he de- 
manded sharply. 

44 1 do not doubt,” she faltered — ‘‘of 
course you understand yourself — I be- 
lieve you.” 

‘‘You are quite wrong, then,” said 
Maurice, laughing, ‘‘for I do not under- 
stand myself. No man knows what he 
would be under the influence of any pas- 
sion until he has felt it. I told you how 
I loved my mother, but that, after all, is 
different. I have never been in love. 
Tell me what it is like,” he went on, 
coaxingly, ‘‘this being in love.” And 
he continued to look at her with smiling 
audacity. 

44 Mr. Layton,” she cried with a flash 
of color to her face, “ I have never been 
in love.” 

“ I knew it!” he exclaimed exultingly : 
“ I knew you did not care for Ralph. Con- 
fess that his perfections bored you.” 

“ I shall confess nothing of the sort.” 

‘‘But you did not love him, I was cer- 
tain of that. So you have never been in 
love ? Neither have I. Let us go on. I 
never want to be in love : do you ?” 

But Felise said nothing. 

He looked at her with sudden gravity. 
“ But you will love : you will always be 
beloved, and not always in vain. A 
man*s destiny is influenced by the love 
he gives — a woman’s, by the love she 
accepts. So choose rightly when you 
choose.” 

‘‘You do seem to believe in love, Mr. 
Layton.” 

44 1 know men, and I believe in it. The 
young believe that it is the privilege of 


youth alone, but it is not so. I know old 
men, gray-headed, powerful, whose word 
settles affairs for nations, who are yet the 
slaves of women whose capricious wishes 
are higher laws than any they recognize 
on earth. I believe in such love as I be- 
lieve in other calamities, but I think it 
may be avoided. There is a perilous 
fascination in its first advances, and 
great passions, easily mastered at the 
outset, are nurtured by yielding to the 
charm of pleasant hours until they grow 
too headstrong to be controlled. A man 
must hold himself in check. As for me — ’ ’ 
But he remembered that he was talking 
to a girl who listened to him with some 
wonder, and he broke off abruptly. 

The tide was coming in, and the mo- 
notonous roar of the surges filled up the 
pause. Zoo-Zoo had found some sea- 
monster, and, startled by its spasmodic 
movements, began barking vociferously. 
Felise sprang up and ran along the shore 
toward him. Maurice looked after her 
with an indulgent smile on his face as 
the wind blew back her bright hair and 
made her white draperies cling to her, 
disclosing the slender ankles and feet. 
She seemed to lean toward the breeze 
and drink it in ; then she turned and 
ran around the point, with Zoo-Zoo after 
her, and vanished. Maurice watched the 
twinkling feet as long as they kept in 
sight, then he too jumped up and fol- 
lowed her with mighty strides. He soon 
overtook her, for she had paused in her 
race and seemed plunged in deep thought. 
The noise of the surf hindered her from 
hearing his approach, and believing her- 
self quite unperceived, with an intent 
face she leaned down and with the tip of 
her parasol wrote something in the sand. 
Maurice was all the time looking over 
her shoulder, and smiled as he saw her 
trace the word Love. 

‘‘You do not need to write it there, 
child,” said he, 44 for you have written it 
imperishably on many hearts.” 

She started and lost all self-command, 
looking at him with trembling lips and 
an air of terror. 

‘‘Forgive me!” he exclaimed: 44 1 have 
frightened you. I supposed you knew 
I was here, although you did not turn 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


47 


round. I was horribly rude to watch 
you, but since it is such a secret I prom- 
ise to tell nobody.” 

He stooped down and erased the magic 
word with his hand. ‘‘Not that when 
4 Love ’ really comes into your life it can 
be rubbed out like this,” said he softly as 
he still knelt, looking up into her face. 
But she could not answer his smile, and 
murmured something inaudibly about its 
being time to go home ; and they walked 
gravely back toward the carriage. 

“ Since this particular subject has been 
under discussion,” said Maurice, after a 
long pause breaking the stiff silence, “ I 
will tell you a story if you would like to 
hear it. Some twenty years ago I knew 
a very beautiful and singularly clever 
woman of thirty - five, and we played a 
very neat game of flirtation together. 
She was of course a married woman, 
and prided herself on her knowledge of 
men. When we parted she gave me a 
letter, remarking that it contained a story 
whose moral I must lay to heart. It ran 
thus : An Eastern prince was setting forth 
on his travels, and his father, the king, 
and his teacher, a venerable priest, laid 
their heads together to devise some plan 
to protect him from the snares of this 
wicked world. Accordingly, they select- 
ed a hundred wise books for him to car- 
ry. But the prince laughed, and asked 
how he could encumber himself with two 
camels’ loads of musty folios. The priest 
selected the six which seemed fullest of 
profound lore. Still the prince refused, 
and even when the number of volumes 
was reduced to one, he declined it, since 
he could not force its wide covers into 
the knapsack which hung over his shoul- 
ders. The king and the priest were now 
in despair, but the priest went barefooted 
up the mountain and became a hermit, 
studying and praying, fasting. After an 
absence of many days he came down, 
and finding the prince just ready to leave 
the palace-gates, said to him solemnly, 
‘ Since, O prince ! you travel without car- 
avan or slaves to bear written words of 
sacred wisdom, I have sought by much 
fasting and long prayerful vigils for the 
essence of all knowledge for the guidance 
of the unruly footsteps of the denizens of 


the world. Carry this maxim, which has 
been disclosed to me, in your mind, and 
let it be imprinted on your heart. For 
this is the sum of all wisdom — the mean- 
ing of all commandment : Beware of wo- 
man, for in loving her thou shalt find in 
thyself weakness and wickedness, and 
liking temptation better than upright- 
ness.’ ” 

Felise laughed. 

“ I hope the prince was always wise,” 
said she archly. 

“ Can you doubt it ?” 

“ Y our fascinating friend really believed 
love would be unlucky for you. You are 
wise to have avoided it;” and she turn- 
ed her face toward him full of amuse- 
ment. 

‘‘Avoided it?” he retorted. “I swear 
to you I never yet needed the lesson.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

They drove home slowly. The shad- 
ows lay upon the grass as if they had 
gone to sleep ; the birds twittered in the 
trees as they sought the densest greenery 
to cover their night’s repose ; the inland 
air seemed warm and sultry after the 
fresh breezes from the sea ; and both 
Maurice and Miss Clairmont were weary 
and did not care to talk. 

Felise was driving now, and when she 
reached the cottage she turned into the 
avenue at her companion’s suggestion, 
that he might be dropped at the door. 
He laughed a little as he made the re- 
quest, for it seemed both lazy and dis- 
courteous for him to proffer it. But he 
was all the time thinking it but fair that 
he should give his brother an opportuni- 
ty of seeing Miss Clairmont, she was so 
exquisitely pretty as she leaned forward 
holding the reins. Maurice had always 
thought her beautiful, with a finer charm 
of graciousness and wit than other girls 
possessed, but not until to-day had he 
mastered the secret of the charm she 
might possess for the man who loved 
her. She was lovelier than others, but 
Maurice was familiar with a society which 
contained many pre-eminently beautiful 
women, and mere beauty moved him lit- 


48 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


tie except to criticism and comparison. 
Felise’s charm lay in the peculiar femi- 
nineness of her character and its manifes- 
tations, so he began to tell himself. She 
was, as somebody said of another fair 
woman, “mieux femme que les autres 
femmes,” and stirred the wish in men to 
kneel before her and make her the ob- 
ject of some chivalrous endeavor. But 
exaggerated devotion of this stamp ex- 
presses itself differently in different social 
epochs, and Miss Clifford’s engaged hus- 
band said and did nothing picturesque, 
although he mentally decided that his 
fair companion was quite worthy of even 
Frank’s infatuation. He even told him- 
self that unless he, Maurice Layton, pos- 
sessed rare self-control and the capacity 
for mastering vagrant fancies, it might 
be better for even him not to sit too often 
beside Felise, as he sat now, free to watch 
in a luxurious mood the dark fringes of 
those rare eyes, the pale yet bloomy 
cheek, the contours of chin, throat &nd 
ear, with the golden hair flying back as 
they met the wind. But he did not hesi- 
tate to drink the enjoyment of the hour 
to the full, while he told himself that he 
regretted Frank had not been in his place. 
His brother had confessed to him that he 
enjoyed but rarely the chance of seeing 
Felise alone. 

Mrs. Meredith and Frank were on the 
steps, and ran down to meet the pony- 
carriage. Felise was persuaded to stay 
to tea and allow the carriage to be driven 
home by a servant, to whom she gave a 
message for her aunt, requesting to be 
sent for at ten o’clock. 

‘‘Tell Mrs. Knight,” said Frank, ‘‘that 
I shall myself tak,e Miss Clairmont home 
at eleven o’clock. — You are the victim 
of circumstances,” he added, leading his 
welcome guest into the house. ‘‘Give 
me your hat and gloves. No, you posi- 
tively shall not go away to make your- 
self look more charming.” 

‘‘But my hair is all blown about,” 
pleaded Felise, adjusting her ribbons and 
necklace. — ‘‘I am sure,” she added pa- 
thetically to Mrs. Meredith, ‘‘that I am 
very untidy.” 

“ Nonsense !” returned that lady. “ I 
dare say the gentlemen will not look at 


you, and Violet and I quite prefer that 
you should appear as frightful as possible. 
Are you hungry ? Violet is making tea 
herself. It is the only point where F rank’s 
cook fails. Mr. Morton is cutting bread- 
and-butter.” 

‘‘Werther fell in love with Charlotte 
when he saw her cutting bread-and-but- 
ter,” observed Morton, resting a moment 
from his labors to make his bow to Miss 
Clairmont. “ I never could imagine for 
what reason, but now I quite understand 
it was because she saved him the trouble.” 

‘‘The scene is very pretty,” said Mau- 
rice, looking through his hand with the 
air of a connoisseur at the group in the 
bay-window with Violet at the urn. “ Quite 
a Dutch picture !” 

‘‘You prefer the French school, ap- 
parently,” retorted Violet. 

‘‘Felise,” cried Mrs. Meredith with her 
little tinkling laugh, “ what have you done 
to put Maurice in a good humor? He 
was like a bear this morning, and his 
sorrow and disappointment were so con- 
tagious that we have all taken a gloomy 
view of life ever since.” 

‘‘I assure you, Aunt Agnes,” put in 
Maurice, ‘‘Miss Clairmont thought me 
very formidable when I first asked her 
to let me drive with her.” 

‘‘ Was he very, very cross, Felise ?” 

‘‘On the contrary,” he again inter- 
posed, “ I was soft and confiding as a 
cherub. I confessed all my weaknesses 
to Miss Clairmont.” 

“ Indeed ! What were they ?” 

“ I shall tell no one else. One Delilah 
is enough for a man.” 

‘‘There might be safety in numbers. 
But it’s far from proper, Maurice, to call 
Felise your Delilah.” 

“ I agree with you, and call her noth- 
ing of the sort.” 

‘‘What on earth did you say, then ?” 

“ I made a remark on general princi- 
ples that one Delilah was enough for a 
man.” 

‘‘Oh !” Mrs. Meredith exclaimed, as if 
enlightened. — “Now, Felise, let me tell 
you our news. We have had a visitor 
since dinner — two visitors. One was a 
remarkably pretty woman in a toilette 
that filled me with envy. The other was 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


49 


a mite of a creature — a sort of attendant 
sylph or sprite in vivid blue — an inch 
of skirts, voluminous embroideries, lace 
enough for a court-suit, and high blue 
kid boots.” 

‘‘Mrs. Dury and her little girl?” ask- 
ed Felise. 

“ Is she not a droll person ?” 

‘‘Which? I think Mrs. Dury very 
magnificent, and as for Bel, she is an 
angel.” 

‘‘Ask Mr. Morton if she is not an angel. 
The gentlemen were devoted to the fair 
widow of course, and heaped flattery and 
bonbons on the little girl. Mr. Morton 
asked the sweet infant which she pre- 
ferred — himself or Frank. Miss Bel an- 
swered in her shrill voice, ‘ Oh, I like Mr. 
Layton best: he is not so ugly as you 
are.’ ” 

‘‘Mr. Morton did not mind, however,” 
said Violet, “ for the lovely widow turned 
her blue eyes upon him with a look which 
showed that she at least had a soul to be 
moved by his good looks.” 

‘‘Frank,” observed his aunt in a voice 
of solemn warning, “ I hope you feel the 
perils of your position. A house like this, 
without a mistress, exposes a good-look- 
ing young man to peculiar liabilities. I 
think the widow had an intention when 
she declared her admiration of your tea- 
cups with dragon handles.” 

‘‘Depend upon it,” rejoined Frank, ‘‘I 
am quite safe where Mrs. Dury is con- 
cerned. But I tremble for Morton, as 
she makes no secret of her admiration 
for his giant intellect. It is hard upon 
me to see where her preference lies, but 
I will do nothing to injure the cause of 
my friend.” 

“ Mrs. Dury is a very charming wo- 
man,” said Morton. 

“ Isn’t she ?” observed Maurice. ‘‘And, 
like other widows, she saves a man a 
world of trouble. I consider widows a 
dispensation of Providence in behalf of 
shy men.” 

‘‘Why so?” demanded Violet. ‘‘Is it 
easier to please a widow than an unmar- 
ried woman ?” 

‘‘Most certainly it is. Few men but 
have a fear of the tender, innocent- eyed 
girls who come out every year, to whom 
4 


everything is a surprise, a sensation, and 
perhaps a shock. Now, with widows, 
tout va sans dire.” 

“ I never knew before,” said Violet, 
‘‘why it was that men run after widows 
as they do. Now I perceive that their 
crowning fascination consists in an ab- 
sence of ‘ shock.’ ” 

“ Precisely.” 

‘‘Men never speak well of widows,” 
pursued Violet, “yet let the most com- 
monplace woman lose her husband and 
she becomes a social centre at once, and 
is certain to secure the best parti." 

“My own theoretical convictions are 
in favor of the suttee,” said Morton — “ an 
admirable invention for preserving so- 
ciety from these dangers.” 

“Yes,” observed Maurice, “the suttee 
is the proper thing, depend upon it. Ev- 
ery man at heart believes in it. But so- 
ciety tolerates widows, and hence, 

Seen too oft, familiar with their face, 

We first endure, then pity, then embrace/' 

“I wish I were a widow,” sighed Vio- 
let. “ I might have been one. Do you 
remember old Mr. Macpherson, mam- 
ma ? I refused him because he was ugly 
and deaf, and wore false teeth and a wig ; 
but he was frightfully rich, and died of 
heart-disease six months after he pro- 
posed to me. Now, had I only known 
that when he came to know me well and 
love me he was sure to die, I would cer- 
tainly have married him. In that case I 
might at present be a powerful rival to 
Mrs. Dury.” 

Frank had meantime taken a seat very 
close to Felise. “And where,” he ask- 
ed, “have you been taking my brother, 
Miss Clairmont ?” 

“To the beach,” she answered. 

“And very pleasant it was at the 
beach,” remarked Maurice, looking up 
from his papers. 

“I don’t doubt it,” declared Frank 
with a sigh. “ I console myself, how- 
ever, for not having been in your place, 
Maurice, by the flattering conviction that 
Mrs. Knight considers me far too youthful 
and charming to be permitted to go alone 
to the beach with her niece. Advanced 
age has its prerogatives, I grant, yet it is 
something to be young and fascinating, 


5 ° 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


even if when I take Miss Clairmont to 
drive we need to be duly chaperoned.” 

“ It is not my gray hairs in which Mrs. 
Knight puts her faith, but my discre- 
tion,” retorted Maurice, laughing and 
again looking up from his papers. 

‘‘There is something quite affable 
about Maurice to-night,” said Mrs. Mer- 
edith, preparing to open a budget of 
home-letters which had just come in. 
“ But he is generally happy when he has 
the newpapers. — Does Rosamond allow 
you to read them before her, Maurice ?” 

“ If you ask her, she will say I do noth- 
ing else.” 

‘‘Maurice is a cross between a blue- 
book and a statue,” said Frank. ‘‘When 
I am so lucky as to be engaged, I shall 
not read papers as I sit by my ” 

‘‘Your ? What under heaven 

does he mean ? When, my dear inno- 
cent victim of hallucination, you are so 
unfortunate as to be engaged, you will 
begin to appreciate the real worth of a 
newspaper : you will be so tired of fiction 
and fantasy, of the unreality and unsub- 
stantiality of your world of thought, that 
you will be but too thankful to settle 
down on a basis of calm sense. Dreams 
are very well for a time, but give me facts, 
facts, facts !” 

Frank, sitting by Felise in the window, 
looked at her so fixedly that presently she 
turned and met his eyes. ‘‘This is pleas- 
ant, is it not?” he whispered — ‘‘so much 
better than the dull evening I expected.” 

“ It is charming,” she returned with a 
smile. 

“ Is the blue dress finished ?” broke in 
Mrs. Meredith. 

“ Not quite, but I shall put on the last 
ruffle to-morrow.” 

“ May I go up and sit by you while you 
sew ?” inquired Maurice from behind the 
Express . 

Frank burst out laughing. “ I shall be 
there,” said he. 

“ But is there not another vacant chair 
beside Miss Clairmont’s work-table? I 
love to see a woman at her needle.” 

‘‘Oh, Felise,” cried Violet, “how can 
you sew? I should as soon think of 
building the house I live in as of making 
the dress I wear.” 


“I should suspect, Pansy,” said Mau- 
rice, “ that you would have an aversion 
to needlework.” 

“Pray tell me if Miss Clifford sews,” 
she asked satirically. 

“ Never : at least I have never seen her 
with a needle.” 

“Since you admire white fingers at 
work, why not set Miss Clifford to sew- 
ing for your amusement?” 

“My dear Pansy, it might not amuse 
me. As a rule, I have little time to sit 
by the distaff. I find Saintford air de- 
velops many tastes I never knew before : 
you may regard them as phenomena, not 
as essential traits of character.” 

Luigi had lit the lamps in the library, 
and Maurice and Mrs. Meredith took 
their papers and letters there. Violet 
and Morton vanished through the long 
French window into the shrubberies and 
the gathering twilight. Frank was alone 
with Felise, who was sitting on the low 
window - seat, leaning out and playing 
with a vine that stretched across and 
twined around the shutter. She was 
smiling, the light breeze swayed her 
floating hair, and the loose lace-border- 
ed sleeves fell back from the perfect 
hands and wrists. She was as uncon- 
scious of her charming attitude as a 
child, and presently she turned back 
and sang a verse from an old song in 
a tender voice, quite ignorant of what 
a fever she was stirring in his heart: 

“ Through groves of palm sigh gales of balm. 
Fire-flies on the air are wheeling, 

While through the gloom comes soft perfume, 

The distant beds of flowers revealing. 

That makes the night perfect, does it 
not?” she said, looking at him archly. 

“ Not quite,” he answered with a throb- 
bing heart. 

“Not quite? I think you are hard to 
satisfy. What else would you have ?” 

“ Shall I tell you ?” he murmured, bend- 
ing over her so closely that she felt the 
meaning of his smile and the light in his 
eyes with a full perception of his further 
requirements, although she would not 
confess the knowledge to herself. 

“No, no!” she cried, shrinking back, 
“do not tell me.” 

“ It shall be just as you say for a little 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


51 


longer,” said he sadly. “ But do you care 
nothing for my wishes ?” 

She leaned from the window again and 
pulled a rose from the vine. ‘‘This is 
what you want,” she said coaxingly : ‘‘I 
will give this to you.” 

‘‘You give roses to everyone. I saw 
you pick six roses from your bush yes- 
terday and give them to six different 
men, all equally obnoxious to me. You 
are like Flora — you scatter roses.” 

‘‘But I will do more with this: I will 
put it in your buttonhole.” She turned 
as she spoke to place it. He bent to- 
ward her, and her slim fingers adjusted 
the flower. H e looked down at her as she 
stood so confidingly within the circle of 
his arms had he outstretched them, and 
felt a lover’s fierce longing to seize and 
* hold her there. But Felise, glancing up 
in his face, thought him cold and indif- 
ferent.’ 

‘‘Are you angry with me?” she cried 
tremulously. 

He took her hands, held them tightly 
an instant while he gazed into her eyes : 
then he thrust them from him. “Felise,” 
said he smiling, but with some passion, 
“what a child you are !” 

“But I am not a child,” she returned, 
half pouting. “Why did you seem so 
strange? Were you really angry?” 

“ Angry ! ” repeated poor Frank. 
“What do you think about it? What 
may I say ? Do you give me leave to 
say what is in my heart ?” 

“ No, no !” she cried, drawing back and 
trembling at his vehemence. 

“Well, then,” said he with a wild sort 
of laugh, “ I am not allowed to speak, 
yet if I make a supreme effort and hold 
my tongue, you think me disagreeably 
cross. I said just now, ‘ What a child 
you are !’ Let me say, rather, what a 
woman you are !” 

She perceived that he was entertained 
by something and could hardly smother 
his inclination to laugh out. “What is 
it?” she demanded imperiously. “You 
must tell me what it is. I will not have 
you laughing at me : I am too old to be 
treated like a child.” 

Frank laughed uncontrollably, but he 
could not tell her what secret thought 


diverted him. A man in love is always 
liable to be moved at times by a sense 
of the absurdity of his position, and if 
his suit has a chance of ultimate success, 
he can afford to smile at the dainty defi- 
ance of the lips he means soon to kiss, 
the mutinous glance of the eyes he in- 
tends shall soon droop before his own 
unveiled gaze, the touch-me-not dignity 
of the hands he believes will shortly be 
but too glad to nestle of their own accord 
within his clasp. 

“ I treat you like a child !” he exclaim- 
ed. “On the contrary, I stand completely 
in awe of you. Tell me, please, how old 
you are.” 

“ I shall be twenty in October.” 

“ And I am almost thirty-six. Think 
of it, Felise — I am almost sixteen years 
older than you! Still, I would not be 
younger, even if I could. Do you re- 
member the French proverb, 4 Si la jeu- 
nesse savait — si la vieillesse pouvait ’ ? 
My age has all the advantages of both 
capacities. I know the possibilities of 
youthful happiness, yet have not passed 
the period — or at least I hope I have not 
— when I may seize and hold them.” 

“Men are so fortunate!” said Felise 
after a moment’s pause. “ If women are 
wise, it is because their beauty has gone, 
and their youth, and they have looked 
desolation and sorrow in the face. Then 
only do they know what the inspiration 
of their youth was worth.” 

“ You shall never be wise,” cried Frank 
ardently. “Felise, you shall never be 
old.” 

“How can I help it ?” she asked. “ But, 
alas ! I fear you are right in one way : 
even if I grow old I shall never grow 
wise.” 

“Let me be your friend,” he cried 
again impetuously, “and you shall go 
through life without experiencing the 
bitterness that comes to so many. Oh, 
I could not endure to see you anything 
less than you are now — that innocence 
and purity upon your brow, that smile 
of a waking child !” 

“Hush!” she murmured: “you must 
not flatter me and she hung her head, 
for Frank was far less guarded than he 
had ever been before. 


5 2 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


The parlor where they were sitting was 
almost dark now, and Mrs. Meredith, is- 
suing from the lighted library, laughed at 
the two for sitting so romantically in the 
summer twilight. She had news, she 
came to tell them. Leslie Wilmot had 
written her that he could not endure 
England without Violet ; that his expe- 
dition to 'Norway had been given up ; 
that he was about to follow them to the 
States ; and that she must not let Pansy 
be too hard upon him for doing so. Luigi 
brought in lights, and Mrs. Meredith chat- 
tered gayly on of the miseries of a wo- 
man’s life when she was so unfortunate 
as to have a marriageable daughter. If 
the marriage had only taken place at 
Easter ! Nothing but Violet’s caprice de- 
ferred the consummation of the engage- 
ment. With her only daughter comfort- 
ably invested with a respectable man’s 
name, the volatile lady declared she 
could begin life anew without an an- 
noyance in the world. The peal of the 
door-bell interrupted her, and Mrs. Mer- 
edith went down the entire length of the 
long parlors with her letters for a fresh 
perusal of them in her particular nook 
in one of the bay-windows. Luigi brought 
in a card to his master, who looked at it 
with a puzzled face. 

“Malcolm Leslie Arbuthnot Wilmot,” 
he repeated, staring blankly. “ I cannot 
seem to think who he is.” 

But while he was speaking a young 
man advanced into the room, hat in 
hand, and walked eagerly up to him. 
“Don’t you know me?” he asked. “I 
remember you perfectly, Mr. Layton. 
Are the Merediths here? I am Leslie 
Wilmot.” 

Mrs. Meredith fluttered toward them,, 
and while Frank was making hospitable 
inquiries of Wilmot she turned to Felise 
and whispered a request to her to go qui- 
etly and find Violet, apologizing hastily 
for asking this service of her. 

Felise ran out gladly, and as she pass- 
ed the study-door Maurice joined her. 
“ Where are you going ?” he asked. “ To 
look for Violet? She is in the garden 
with Morton : I had a glimpse of them 
in the shrubberies. May I go with you ?” 

She took his proffered arm, and they 


strolled down the garden-path in the odor- 
ous July dusk. “So the bridegroom has 
come for the unwise virgin?” continued 
Maurice with some glee. “ Do you sup- 
pose Pansy will be glad of the news ?” 

“You engaged people know your own 
secrets best,” retorted Felise, laughing 
softly. “ I suppose she will be charmed 
to see him.” 

“Nous autres fiances, we know that 
under certain circumstances even our 
nearest and dearest are altogether in the 
way. F or instance, do you fancy I should 
have been glad to- see Miss Clifford this 
afternoon if she had risen like- Venus 
from the sea-foam to find me stretched 
at your feet discoursing of love ? Or, 
indeed, even now, for what could be 
more suggestive of romance than this 
innocent little promenade of ours ?” 

Felise did not know exactly what to 
say, so with a smile she slowly raised her 
eyes until they met his, then dropped 
them. It was late evening now : the 
stars shone golden in the pale hazy 
depths of the sky, but the glow of the 
sunset still lingered in the west and gleam- 
ed through the interlaced branches of the 
elms on the one hand, while on the other 
the tall trees stood like motionless giants 
glooming together in a sombre mass. Not 
a leaf moved, scarcely a sound was to be 
heard, yet there seemed no silence. 

“Yes, there they are in the arbor,” re- 
marked Maurice, shaking off a sort of 
disinclination to speak. They paused 
opposite the summer-house, where they 
could distinctly see two figures revealed 
in silhouette against the background of 
daffodil western sky. It was startlingly 
evident to both observers that Morton 
was standing with Violet’s hands in his, 
and, half kneeling, half bending, was 
kissing them repeatedly. 

“Violet!” called Maurice in a voice 
which struck his cousin’s ear like a bu- 
gle reveil. She turned slowly. Morton 
started back, and leaned against the 
framework of the arbor. 

“ Is that you, Maurice ?” she asked. 

“ It is. Here are Miss Clairmont and 
I quite worn out with our search for you. 
Somebody wants to see you.” 

“What an exigeant some one ! Who 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


53 


is there in this hemisphere that I need 
see unless I feel inclined ? I thought I 
had left that sort of thing behind me in 
England.” 

, “ That sort of thing is ubiquitous, aw- 
fully mal-apropos : it follows one every- 
where.” 

At the same moment another form be- 
came defined out of the rapidly-thicken- 
ing dusk, and another voice called ‘‘Vio- 
let! Violet!” and the chief actor enter- 
ed and carried off all the honors of the 
scene. 

“ What ! is it you, Leslie ?” she cried in 
surprise. 

He put his arms about her and clasped 
her closely. “ My darling !” he whispered, 
‘‘I could not stay away.” 

‘‘Silly boy !” said she in her witching 
way, but evading his embrace, ‘‘remem- 
ber how to behave yourself. But I am 
very glad to see you. — Good friends, it is 
too dark here to make introductions, so 
we will wait until we meet in Frank’s 
parlor.” 

She passed on with Wilmot, leaving 
Maurice and Felise by the door of the 
summer-house, and Morton within, quite 
invisible in the gloom. 

‘‘Here, Morton,” said Maurice, “give 
your arm to Miss Clairmont : I have a 
fancy to walk about and get cool before 
I go back.” 

Morton left the shadow and offered his 
arm to the young girl. Maurice’s know- 
ledge of men was certain, and it was cred- 
itable in him just then to draw the angry 
man within the circle of conventional- 
ities. The two walked toward the house 
together, following Wilmot, whose voice 
was clearly distinguishable as he rattled 
on to Violet, loitering along the path with 
his arm around her. 

‘‘Oh, I am glad to see you of course,” 
Violet returned after he had inquired a 
dozen times how she felt regarding his 
unexpected advent. “ But I don’t know 
how you can amuse yourself here. We 
are as quiet as church mice, and have 
put off traveling until September.” 

“Oh, as to that,” said Leslie, “I’ll man- 
age ,capitally. I inquired at once if Saint- 
ford touched navigable water anywhere, 
and engaged a yacht as soon as I landed.” 


“Was it easy to suit yourself?” 

“Not at first. This one was engaged 
for the middle of July for a two months’ 
cruise, but I offered too powerful an argu- 
ment for any Yankee to refuse.” 

“What was your argument ?” 

“The only one I ever needed yet. I 
could afford to bid higher than other 
men. Don’t you know, I always get 
what I want ? She’ll be here in a few 
days. I ordered her freshened up — new 
carpets and cushions, you know, and that 
sort of thing — fit for ladies, you know. 
You’ll cruise about with me a little, 
won’t you, Pansy ?” 

“I hate yachts. You love your yacht 
better than you love me.” 

“ Do I, though ? When once you marry 
me I’ll give up yachting entirely if you 
say it, though it is such a jolly life cruis- 
ing about. Who was it said I was her idea 
of a ‘jolly tar’ ? Oh, Lulu Thatcher.” 

“ Don’t dare to talk about Lulu 
Thatcher!” 

“ By Jove ! you’ve no call to be jealous 
about her, Pansy. She used to propose 
to me regularly every day last year when 
we went up to Skye, but she never caught 
me tripping. Oh, Pansy, to be with you 
again ! Do you know, this yacht was 
called the Tide Wave, but I had it paint- 
ed out and your name put in its place. 
But you never saw the real Pansy. She’s 
a perfect beauty — purple velvet* and gold 
trimmings, pansies embroidered every- 
where — painted on the panels, even on 
the china. I wanted to come over in 
her, but the good mamma was 111 at the 
bare notion, so I gave it up.” 

“Where is your old Pansy now?” 

“ I lent her to Cromley : he and his 
bride are among the Hebrides, I have 
no doubt.” 

“That was very pretty of you.” 

“ Isn’t he your cousin ? I hope Mr. 
Frank Layton has ordered me some 
dinner, supper or something. ‘ Hungry’ 
is not just the word for me.” And with 
this artless prattle Wilmot beguiled Vio- 
let’s walk to the house, and Morton, ten 
paces off, heard every word, chewing 
meanwhile the cud of his own bitter 
thoughts. 


hi. 


CHAPTER IX. 

F RANK LAYTON was a good deal 
occupied now-a-days with his guests, 
both permanent and transient, the enter- 
tainment of whom kept the cottage in a 
condition of incessant festivity, which, 
although pleasant enough for the bright 
young people, who demanded a summer 
like a continuous fete, was wearisome to 
a host whose interest in humanity in gen- 
eral was at present limited by his regard 
for one woman in particular. He no 
longer had an opportunity to spend even 
his mornings at Mr. Knight’s, and it was 
his brother who had there succeeded to 
his place of ami de la maison . Maurice, 
in fact, had no inclination to dawdle about 
the cottage in the mornings devoting him- 
self to his aunt and cousin. He was be- 
nevolently contemptuous of such social 
requirements, and preferred spending 
his time in the manner most agreeable 
* to himself. His correspondence and the 
morning papers occupied most of the fore- 
noon. Afterward, since work did not 
press, he sought relaxation, and found 
it, in the society of Miss Clairmont. He 
took the same sort of pleasure in this 
that a man somewhat tired and dispirit- 
ed might take in throwing himself on a 
bank of violets and wild thyme, with 
the softest breaths of sweet south winds 
unstringing his highly-wrought nerves. 
He not only admired Felise very much, 
but she suited him. He had gradually 
grown into the habit of talking to her 
very freely, and was at times absolutely 
startled by the fact that he was telling 
her a thousand things of which he had 
hitherto spoken to no one — experiences, 
feelings, despondencies of his own, whose 
existence even Rosamond was comfort- 
ably remote from suspecting. He un- 
derstood his present position perfectly, 
and decided that it was not in the least 
prejudicial to either Frank’s or Miss Clif- 
ford’s interests that he found such pleas- 
ure in Felise’s society. He was forty- 
three, and of course no man caq be so 
54 


old without becoming very experienced 
and thoroughly master of himself. In a 
case of infatuation he could easily re- 
press any inclination to commit himself, 
and could sagely reduce his experience 
within the bounds of formula, and argue 
that, constituted as man is, with the ne- 
cessity of feeling satiety and disenchant- 
ment as soon as he possesses any object 
of desire, it is well for him that worship 
of something he can never attain should 
have some place in his inner life. What 
else explained the fact that sober fteres 
de famille read poetry and romance with 
a completer abandon than boys ? No 
one could study history intelligently with- 
out recognizing the fact that unappeased 
masculine passion was one of the strong- 
est motive powers of human achieve- 
ment. Not that Maurice had yet reach- 
ed the point where it was essential for 
him to convince himself that he was 
doing the best thing he could under 
the circumstances ; but it was his habit 
of mind to do his thinking before a pos- 
sible emergency. Just now, however, he 
thought of himself as little as possible. 
It was delicious summer weather, and 
he was among a coterie of agreeable 
people, whose occupation in life was to 
do the most agreeable things they found 
to do by night and by day. Every one 
amused himself in the way he liked best, 
the only law being that of natural selec- 
tion. He himself preferred, of all that 
Saintford offered, to go to the Knights’ : 
he liked Mr. Knight, who was an inde- 
fatigable talker ; he liked Mrs. Knight 
with her fine eyes and rounded majestic 
form, which carried the sweetness and 
dignity of matronliness in its every move- 
ment ; and as for Felise, she was Frank’s 
future wife, and it pleased his fraternal 
sense to discover every day some fresh 
and more adorable trait. He had re- 
nounced small desires for his own part, 
and knew himself to be quite out of 
place in this elegant, fictitious, unreal 
life, so calculated to undermine a man’s 


LOVE IN IDLENESS, 


55 


conviction that the end of his career is 
not, after all, to look into a woman’s 
eyes, be they never so witching. But, 
stirred by the interest he felt in his broth- 
er’s love, he liked to watch Felise in her 
home and learn all he could about her 
ways and thoughts. Mr. Knight was 
never quite far away from her, for he 
not only loved her for her sweet girlish 
sake, but, like other learned men who 
have clever sympathetic women about 
them, he used her memory like a book 
of notes, and was calling constantly, 
“ Felise, look up so and so;” or, “ What 
was it, my child, I told you to remember 
on this point?” Mr. Knight’s most ab- 
struse studies were familiar ground to the 
young girl, although the subjects them- 
selves were without interest to her ex- 
cept as she saw them through the eyes 
of the good old man. It is sometimes 
easy for a woman to seize, apparently 
without effort, an idea for whose mastery 
a man grapples desperately for years. 
Her attitude of mind is receptive : she 
absorbs thoughts, broods over them, and 
presently understands their meanings in 
a way that may make her (intellect infi- 
nitely suggestive to her father or husband 
if he but brings her within the circle of 
his own original thought and invention. 

“Your niece is a wonderfully clever 
child,” Maurice remarked once to Mr. 
Knight. 

‘‘Not at all. Felise is merely bright 
and versatile, like other girls of her age,” 
returned Mr. Knight. “ I hate superior 
literary females. The Harriet Marti- 
neaus and Margaret Fullers of the world 
bore me to death, but I do love a cultiva- 
ted woman. Felise has all the poetry and 
mythologies of the ages at her tongue’s 
end : she has touched everywhere in her 
reading and study, but settled nowhere 
as yet. She is of immense service to 
me from a literary point of view. When 
she looks over my shoulder her pretty 
fancies give me sudden flashes of a wider 
light, and my page is brightened up by 
her suggestions. Still, don’t fancy her 
remarkably clever. All her facility 
comes from her faculty of loving. She 
must be everything to me because she 
loves me.” 


Mr. Knight went back to his study, 
and Maurice sauntered down the terrace 
toward Felise, who was busy among the 
ferns in her rock-work. He sank down 
silently upon a bench and watched her, 
thinking over her uncle’s words. What 
a good, loving little girl she was ! What 
a wife she would be for Frank ! and she 
could make a clever man of him too. 
He sighed as if stirred by a regret. 

“ Don’t soil your fingers digging about 
those roots,” he exclaimed abruptly. 
“ Look at your hands.” 

She regarded them with a shamefaced 
air. “ I can wash them,” said she depre- 
catingly. “ I will go and wash them in 
the fountain.” She started up and ran 
across the lawn. He followed her, and 
as she leaned over the basin she saw his 
face reflected in the water. She laughed. 
“ Do you remember how Corinne saw 
Lord Nelvil looking over her in the foun- 
tain of Trevi ?” she asked. 

‘‘I believe so. I always hated that 
book.” 

“ Why ? For years and years I read no 
other romance. I knew it all by heart, 
and thought it the most beautiful book 
in the world.” 

44 1 dare say. Lord Nelvil is the true 
type of a woman’s hero.” 

44 He meant to do well.” 

‘‘Very likely, but the reason he did not 
succeed was because he was a sneak and 
could not do well. But I do not like Co- 
rinne. A fine creature, doubtless, but 
she talked too much. Yes, even for a 
woman, she talked too much.” 

44 But she talked gloriously.” 

“Yes. But it is such a bore to be de- 
claimed at ! It is my business, you know, 
to declaim, and I won’t suffer the inflic- 
tion from others if I can help it. I know 
the worth of loud, fluent, unhesitating, 
eloquent harangues. I should never 
have been reduced to a state of simmer- 
ing passion by Corinne or her prototype, 
Madame de Stael.” 

“I fancy most men dislike women of 
superior minds,” Felise retorted. 

“Do they?” exclaimed Maurice with 
an air of frank regret. “ I was just tell- 
ing your uncle that I thought you so 
amazingly clever.” 


56 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


“But I am not at all clever,” returned 
Felise. “Pray do not consider me so.” 

“You are a second Corinne,” observed 
Maurice gravely. “After meeting you 
one longs for a pretty fool instead.” 

Felise rose from the bank and walked 
with much stateliness back to her fern- 
ery, but her dignity was somewhat di- 
minished by the fact that her hands were 
dripping, for she could not find her hand- 
kerchief. 

“ What are you looking for ?” inquired 
Maurice. 

“ My handkerchief : I dropped it here.” 

“Allow me to offer mine,” he suggest- 
ed, drawing a great square of cambric 
from his pocket, and going up to her he 
deliberately wiped her hands with scru- 
pulous pains. “ Those mighty members 
are dry now, I believe,” said he, hold- 
ing them up and scrutinizing them. 
“ Why do you not thank me, you un- 
grateful little girl?” 

But she turned away, sat down and 
took up her book. Complete silence 
reigned for five minutes. 

“Is this a maiden -hair fern?” said 
Maurice, artlessly indicating a Pieris. 

“No,” she returned, pointing to an- 
other: “that is a maiden-hair fern.” 

“The name is poor and meaningless. 
Ferns resemble nothing in the way of 
hair.” 

But her smile was very languid, and she 
appeared quite absorbed in her reading. 

“Do I bore you?” he asked after an- 
other interval of silence. 

“A little,” she said with a nod. 

“ I do not believe it,” he returned flat- 
ly. “ I have been, however, so unfortu- 
nate as to vex you.” As he spoke he 
sat down beside her, and leaning forward 
looked up into her face. To his' dismay 
he saw tears in her eyes. “Why, my 
dear child!” he cried with concern, 
“what have I done?” 

“Nothing,” she murmured with more 
tears. “ Oh, if I only had my handker- 
chief!” 

He offered her his own with a grand 
air. She wiped her eyes, laughed fool- 
ishly and gave it back to him. 

“I think you are a silly child, not a 
clever woman at all,” said he indulgent- 


ly. “The next time I go to town I shall 
make a point of bringing you a box of 
bonbons. Do you want me to go away ? 
Please let me stay until I may count my- 
self forgiven.” 

“I am ashamed of my foolishness,” 
she murmured, hanging her head. “I 
do not often cry, but it was cruel of you 
to say you thought me pedantic and 
dull.” 

“Did I say that?” he asked, bending 
close to her. “ I do think you are clever, 
but don’t be pained by that conviction 
of mine, for, whatever you are, you seem 
to me to possess every quality that is 
most charming. Never mistake my teas- 
ing words again.” 

Her eyes were fixed upon him while 
two great tears trembled on the lashes, 
then slowly ran down her cheeks. He 
wiped them off, laughing a little. “I 
wish,” said he with a kind glance, “that 
I had a daughter just like you.” 

“ Oh, I never heard anything so ridic- 
ulous !” 

“Not at all ridiculous. Why, little 
girl, I am almost forty-three years old ! 
Had I married when I was twenty-one, 
I might easily have had a daughter of 
your age.” 

“ But no man should marry when he 
is a boy, a mere boy. Besides, there is 
nothing about you to suggest that you 
are old enough to be anybody’s father,” 
cried Felise with great disdain. 

“Well, perhaps I do not look fatherly 
at present. But I may some time have a 
daughter, and I trust she may resemble 
you. I shall call her Felise.” 

“I forbid you,” she cried with some 
fire in her eyes. “ Besides,” she added, 
smiling rather wickedly, “ I do not think 
Mrs. Maurice Layton would like it.” 

“Rosamond would not care. I shall 
have my own way by that time. I am 
charmed with the fancy of my little Fe- 
lise,” said he, half closing his eyes. 
“ She shall love me better than any one 
in the world. I shall wipe away her 
tears, kiss her sorrowful little face into 
smiles. I shall have all her kisses, her 
caresses. Yes, my little girl’s name 
shall be Felise.” 

But the real, living Felise smiled, with 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


57 


some pain or bitterness behind her smile. 
44 1 do not believe you will love the child 
at all,” she affirmed vehemently. “Be- 
sides, you will be so engrossed in your 
busy life that you will not know your 
children to call them by their names. 
As for that poor little girl, she will find 
no one in the world to love her, and will 
die very young.” Then she laughed at 
her own absurdity and rose. “ It is time 
to dress for the lunch on the yacht,” she 
added. 

“Yes: I am to accompany you and 
Mrs. Knight. I have some gloves in my 
pocket. While you are in-doors I will sit 
here and read the papers.” 

44 1 will send them out to you.” 

“That is good of you. But see, Miss 
Clairmont, shall I keep this ?” And he 
drew a little crumpled bit of cambric from 
his pocket. 

“Where did you find my handker- 
chief?” she asked. 

“You dropped it on your way to the 
fountain, and I picked it up. I should 
be glad to keep it, but one of your lovers 
might see it in my possession, and a mod- 
ern Othello would surely smother me in- 
stead of you. So I will give it back.” 

“Ah, how good of you!” said Felise 
with a little curtsey. 44 1 saw you take 
it, and was about to ask for it.” 

“ I knew that you saw me pick it up,” 
retorted Maurice with some malice. 44 1 
believe you intended that I should pre- 
serve it as a sentimental keepsake. What 
a Desdemona it is !” And at her spirit- 
ed denial he merely shrugged his shoul- 
ders. “ I always thought,” he resumed, 
“that Desdemona was a trifle of a co- 
quette. I dare say she intended that fa- 
mous handkerchief should reach Cassio.” 

Felise left him with an air of revolt. 
He rose and sprang after her. “ Let me 
go in with you,” said he ; “I will find the 
papers for myself.” 


CHAPTER X. 

Wilmot’s yacht, the Pansy, had at 
once become useful in varying the amuse- 
ments of our coterie, and to-day she lay 
anchored in the river, and a party of 


twenty or more were to lunch in her cabin. 
Leslie had entered into the easy, pleasure- 
seeking life going on at Saintford with 
considerable zest, and being ready at any 
time to contribute his quota of hospitality 
in the handsomest manner, was to-day re- 
ceiving his friends in his yachting cos- 
tume, the flags of two great nations fly- 
ing at the masthead and a band play- 
ing in a boat anchored at the stern. It 
was a little unhandsome, then, for his 
guests to make comparisons invidious 
to their host, but Morton stood near Wil- 
mot on the deck, also in yachting-dress, 
and, with his priceless accomplishment 
of wearing clothes well, made Leslie 
appear like an awkward, tasteless cub. 
Maurice remarked the contrast in the 
appearance of the two men to Felise as 
they stood together taking stock of the 
social materials about them. 

“ I admire yachting- suits,” she replied, 
“whether they are worn by graceful au- 
thors or wealthy young Britons. Why 
did you not do something in that way, 
Mr. Layton?” 

“ I ? Oh, I don’t go in for fascina- 
tion. — Frank, come here a minute ;” and 
that gentleman advanced with only too 
much alacrity from Mrs. Dury’s side to 
make his bow to Miss Clairmont. “ This 
young lady is asking why I am not in 
navy blue and gilt buttons, just as if she 
did not perceive that I am in the sere 
and yellow leaf instead. But you, my 
dear fellow, have no excuse for looking 
such a wretched landlubber.” 

Frank looked down at his morning- 
dress with a grimace. “You touch a 
tender chord when you allude to my 
dress. Miss Clairmont,” said he. “ I 
once enjoyed the fondest hopes of shin- 
ing in your presence like Morton and 
Wilmot. My tailor sent me a fortnight 
ago a full yachting-suit, which was more 
becoming than, as a modest man, I dare 
confess tfl you. Since my first boots and 
trousers I have worn nothing so calcu- 
lated to inspire perfect self-satisfaction. 
I looked at myself in the glass and medi- 
tated conquest. To-day at half-past one 
I went to my room eager to assume it, 
but I only had my hand on my wardrobe- 
door when Luigi entered. He had come, 


58 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


he said, for a good word from his master 
for the new clothes he had got up regard- 
less of expense out of compliment to Mr. 
Wilmot, who had asked his assistance 
here to-day. Just look at him there !” 

They all turned, and beheld Luigi’s 
tawny face surmounting the most pic- 
turesque of yachting costumes. He was 
assisting the guests up the ladder with a 
graciousness that led several strangers 
to believe that he was the host himself, 
much to the suppressed indignation of 
Wilmot’s own respectable servant, who, 
in undertaker’s black, with the funereal 
cast of countenance essential to the rep- 
resentative English flunkey, looked with 
withering scorn upon the airs and graces 
of the sunny Italian. 

Felise laughed. “ Aristo va," said she. 
“You should have worn your own suit, 
nevertheless.” 

“I did not mind my aristocracy so 
much. The fact was, he looked so con- 
foundedly young and handsome that the 
contrast disclosed the bitter truth of my 
thirty-six years. All Alnaschar visions 
fled : I meekly continued to wear the 
dress that Maurice has so slightingly 
noticed.” 

“ That boy of yours will be my death,” 
said Maurice. “ There is a superb in- 
souciance about him which gives me fits 
of internal laughter. Imagine me, Miss 
Clairmont, returning to Frank’s house at 
one o’clock at night, and finding Luigi 
on the back lawn with a guitar singing the 
serenade from Don Pasqnale under one 
of the windows of the wing. I inquired 
grimly, as he advanced at my call, what 
under Heaven he was doing at that un- 
earthly hour: he returned with the air 
of Don Juan that he was serenading ‘ la 
petite Jeannette.’ ‘ I have noticed her 
black eyes,’ said I, wishing to propitiate 
him, since I wanted some supper — ‘I 
have noticed her black eyes, you lucky 
dog !’ ‘ Non c’e male,’ he rejoined with 

that little slighting Italian gesture of his, 
4 but my weakness is for blondes. I ad- 
mire Miss Clairmont.’ ” 

“Pray, Miss Clairmont,” interposed 
Frank, annoyed, “don’t fancy I keep 
the fellow for his impudence. It was a 
duty I made for myself, the obligations 


of which I was far from recognizing at 
the time. At first I took him to amuse 
me. I discovered him on a doorstep in 
Naples, a beautiful little brown beggar, 
munching a piece of bread and smelling 
a bunch of roses at the same time. He 
belonged to nobody, and I carried him 
off as I would have done a picture of a 
baby Bacchus. But he grew up, alas ! 
and would not be educated : nothing but 
a servant would he make, and for an 
easy master he is the perfection of a 
servant.” 

“I think he is delightful,” said Felise. 
“ I do not know that he is a good model 
for servants in general, but he fits in 
among your possessions like one of your 
tables of malachite and pietra dura, or 
one of your old majolica cups with drag- 
on handles : he is an animated phenom- 
enon of bric-a-brac taste.” 

“You consider me, then,” observed 
Frank, looking at her with a peculiarly 
clear glance from his blue eyes, “ a mere 
virtuoso, a curiosity-collector?” 

“Not merely that, by any means,” cried 
Felise in some distress; “but confess 
that the working part of your life has 
been the gathering together of a vast 
quantity of trifles.” 

“Do not call that work,” said Frank 
coolly. “Say that I have done no work 
at all — that I am an idler by taste and 
deliberate choice. But what could I have 
done to gain your approval ? Certainly, 
you would not have had me compete 
with other men in money-getting, when I 
have already as much as is good for me ? 
Shall I set up as politician and run in 
opposition to Maurice ? Shall I publish 
the poems I wrote before I was twenty ? 
Shall I go on the stage or patent my last 
bungle at a garden - roller ? Your dis- 
content with my aim in life stirs all sorts 
of possibilities in my mind, Miss Clair- 
mont. Your wishes are sacred to me : 
you have only to point out the way.” 

Mrs. Meredith beckoned to Frank, 
and he went off for a consultation with 
his aunt and Wilmot respecting some 
of the arrangements down stairs. 

“You fail to do Frank justice, Miss 
Clairmont,” said Maurice in a low voice 
and with a glance before which Felise 


LOVE IN IDLENESS . 


59 


quailed. “ I think few men have accom- 
plished half the good he has done in the 
world. Why should he push against 
others in the arena when his place out- 
side has afforded him opportunities to 
gain more friends to bless him with 
grateful personal devotion than all the 
men I know put together ? If you slight 
him, if you do not appreciate how much 
above every one else he is, what will be- 
come of my faith in you? — Here, Frank, 
they are going down to lunch : you are 
to take Miss Clairmont.” 

“ I have not that honor,” returned poor 
Frank with a grand bow. “’Tis you, 
Maurice, who are apportioned to her. I 
am to take Mrs. Dury : Aunt Agnes said 
so.” 

‘‘I am going to take Mrs. Dury my- 
self,” said Maurice. ‘‘You are a disen- 
gaged man, Frank, and it will never do 
for you to be abandoned for two mortal 
hours to the fascinations of a widow with 
proclivities toward flirtation.” And he 
took leave of Miss Clairmont, and went 
over to Mrs. Dury with a valiant air. 

‘‘I am sorry for you,” murmured Fe- 
lise as she put her hand on Frank’s arm. 

‘‘You are a trifle insincere, Miss Clair- 
mont.” 

“ But you do not seem pleased at being 
left with me.” 

‘‘Do I not?” returned Frank with a 
sigh, for he was far from being perfectly 
contented or happy. “ Know, then, once 
for all, mademoiselle, there is just one 
woman in the world whom I wish to take 
in to breakfast, to luncheon, to dinner — 
to walk with, to talk with, to weep with, to 
rejoice with.” 

Felise gave him a glance which, con- 
sidering that she must have attained to 
some realization of her power over him, 
was, it must be confessed, rather a naughty 
little glance. “ I wonder who that woman 
is ?” she rentarked. “ I hope, Mr. Layton, 
when you do succeed in carrying out that 
programme, that you will not condemn 
your life for being too monotonous.” 

“Felise,” he whispered in her ear, 
“ don’t you remember the day I begged 
you not to use your power to torture 
me?” 

“One would think,” she returned with 


a sincere pout, “ that I was a monster of 
the Inquisition and used thumbscrews.” 

“You have nicer arts of torture. Re- 
member that you have it in your power 
to pain me in forty thousand different 
ways, whereas you can please me only 
in one.” 

She looked at him with unaffected sur- 
prise. “Only one way of pleasing you !” 
she ejaculated. “You are very hard to 
please. What must I do then, monsieur, 
in order to win your distinguished appro- 
bation ?” 

Frank colored, but enjoyed his mo- 
ment exceedingly before he spoke. Then 
he whispered something in her ear which 
made Felise quite unable to reply. “ You 
can marry me,” said he so very softly 
that the suggestion came almost like a 
revelation of her own inward conscious- 
ness. 

They went down the companion-way 
together, both looking exceedingly de- 
mure, but Frank was all at once in excel- 
lent spirits. Why should he not be ? He 
was in love, and on his coat-sleeve rested 
a little hand in a lavender glove, the hand 
he wanted out of all the world, and almost 
touching his shoulder was a flower-like 
face, the secret of whose scarlet cheeks 
and downcast eyes he knew, and he 
alone. Decidedly, this lunch was an 
agreeable affair, he thought to himself. 

Society is one of those results of civil- 
ization which we all accept and pay hom- 
age to, yet, as soon as we know it well, 
condemn in our hearts for its frivolity, 
its vulgarity, its dullness. We are wise 
people : we know the world, we un- 
derstand the pushings, the strivings, the 
heartburnings, the foolish extravagance 
of effort and thought and means for 
/compassing certain ends not worth gain- i 
ing after all. Sitting in a corner look- k 
ing on, we may declare the diamonds 
paste, the smiles and laughter forced 
and untrue, the wit hackneyed and mea- 
gre, and the feast spoiled. But while 
people are fortunate enough to be young, 
to be loving or beloved, no prescience 
of this sort mars the grace of the festiv- 
ity, for such wisdom comes only to the 
spectators who have no roles to play, no 
bright eyes to seek, no little pearly ears 


6o 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


to whisper audacious speeches into, but 
who, with nothing to do but to wait for 
their supper, fall to impugning the good 
sense of their luckier neighbors. 

Frank had assisted at many feasts, but 
thought nothing had ever been so delight- 
ful as this. He had most certainly declared 
himself to Felise, and his words had start- 
led her into a confusion from which she 
could not easily recover ; and even if she 
had not given him reason for felicitating 
himself, she had not repulsed him. Had 
he gone down to lunch with some other 
woman, he would have declared the cab- 
in far too small for the splendid table 
and the throng of guests, and not even 
the sea-breeze sweeping through could 
have made the air, so heavily perfumed 
by the flowers in the epergnes, anything 
less than stifling. But to sit by Felise 
for a clear hour, looking into her upraised 
eyes, watching the smiles and dimples 
come and go on the lovely face, stoop- 
ing to hear her low words in that sweet 
Southern voice with its melodious foreign 
accent, made him as happy as a girl at her 
first ball. If one person out of two score 
of people can thus enjoy himself, surely 
society is a benevolent arrangement, and 
the thirty- nine others who are bored 
ought to be glad of the opportunity of 
thus benefiting a man in love. 

Across the table sat Miss Meredith, 
with half a dozen men hanging over her 
chair or bending toward her. She was 
consequently in high spirits. F ew women 
possessed her wit, and one who saw her 
for the first time was apt to consider her 
somewhat daring speech a relief from the 
usual vapid talk of unmarried girls ; but 
as soon as he became fascinated by the 
woman, attracted by her beauty or in- 
terested in her character, he ceased to be 
dazzled by the sort of wit she aimed at, 
and discovered that her words were too 
reckless. Still, she possessed in a rare de- 
gree the power not only of listening well, 
but of divining what inadequate expres- 
sion left unsaid — of leading a man on into 
speech he thought never to have made, 
for she herself seemed inspired by the 
words she invoked, and would be carried 
away by her imaginative fancy into elo- 
quence. But, like many another woman 


of better intellect than discernment, when 
once fixed into interest she would listen 
with apparent pleasure to anything a man 
felt disposed to offer in the way of mot or 
epigram, provided it carried the stamp 
of cleverness upon it, and would go fur- 
ther still in repartee even when her words 
might be judged to leave her in the most 
questionable position. In short, Violet 
Meredith was at times so unfortunate as 
to impress those men to whom she talked 
freely with the idea that she was not over- 
fastidious ; and to-day Morton, while sit- 
ting beside her listening to her gay badin- 
age with two or three middle-aged army 
officers then visiting in Saintford, abso- 
lutely ground his teeth in anger at her 
recklessness in replying with usury to 
the remarks they made, which, although 
gracefully wrapped up, were of anything 
but doubtful meaning to the ears of Mor- 
ton. While he sat there frowning into his 
wine-glass as he leaned his elbow on the 
table, Mrs. Dury’s little girl clambered 
upon his knee and looked into his face. 
“What is the matter?” she asked in her 
shrill childish voice. “You look cross. 
I wish I could tell you a story, and that 
might do you good.” 

“ I wish you could do me good,” re- 
turned Morton, caressing the child, who 
was an exquisite, fairy-like little creature, 
and everybody’s pet. She had a face 
like a wild flower, without any positive 
beauty, but which moved a strong im- 
pulse of tenderness. 

She looked at him soberly. “I re- 
member the story you told me,” she 
said slowly. “ I can tell it to you again 
if you want me to.” 

“Yes, that is just what I want,” an- 
swered Morton, half amused at her per- 
sistence, half bored. As for himself, he 
had forgotten the story. 

“ There was a man,” began Bel, “ once 
upon a time, and he said, ‘ There is some- 
thing in the world for me somewhere : 
let me go find it.’ You see, he had 
nothing, and other men -had heaps of 
things,” added Bel explanatorily, “ and he 
knew that the good God must have made 
him something too. So he went out, and 
traveled over the sea and over the land, 
and one day he came to a garden, and 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


6 1 


there he saw a rose. You’re sure you’re 
listening, Mr. Morton ?” 

“Oh yes, Bel : I hear every word.’’ 

“Well,” pursued Bel, “the rose was 
such a beautiful rose that he picked it, 
and thought that he had found what he 
wanted. Now, on the stem of the rose 
was a thorn, and that tore his hand until 
it bled, but he did not mind that. So he 
put the rose in his bosom, and was be- 
ginning to be very happy when all at 
once he saw that it had withered — that 
its brightness was all gone and its leaves 
were falling. He threw it away : it had 
not paid him for the scratch it gave him.” 

She paused and nodded wisely. Mor- 
ton was listening now intently. Some- 
thing about the earnest little face and the 
pure treble voi'ce touched his heart. 

“Then,” went on Bel, “he picked up 
a great splendid diamond. This made 
him feel rich, it was so large, so costly 
and gave such a light. But, after all, 
what could he do with it ? If it had been 
a pebble like the other round pebbles of 
the seashore, it would have made him 
just as happy.” 

“Of course it would,” observed Mor- 
ton smiling. 

“So,” said Bel, “he put it away in his 
pocket out of sight, and went on and on. 
And when he was getting all tired out 
he lay down under a tree and went to 
sleep. He slept a long time, and final- 
ly when he woke up he heard a little 
child crying somewhere near him.” 

“Ah, that was it !” cried Morton : “ now 
I remember.” 

“Yes,” said Bel: “it was a little girl, 
just like me, who had lost her way. She 
had no father and no mother, and noth- 
ing to eat, and no shoes upon her poor 
little bare feet. So he took her up in 
his arms and carried her over the rough 
stones, and he fed her from his knap- 
sack, and he made her laugh and forget 
all her tears. And she lived with him 
always, and he never said any more that 
he had got nothing that he wanted.” 

“That was a remarkably nice story as 
you told it,” said Morton. “ I really think 
that if a nice pretty little girl like that 
were to come to me in my sleep, I should 
give up seeking for roses and diamonds.” 


Bel was fond but fickle, and seeing 
another knee to mount and another 
shoulder to nestle against, she passed 
on. Morton turned back to Miss Mere- 
dith, who had flushed with the warmth, 
and looked less handsome to him than 
usual. The talk was still going on mer- 
rily, and Morton in his soul loathed every 
word he heard, the laughter and the bold 
careless glances of the men toward her. 
He proposed to Violet to leave the stifling 
air of the cabin for the deck, and she ac- 
ceded to his suggestion readily enough. 

It was cooler and quieter above, be- 
neath the tasseled awnings. Here Mor- 
ton’s spirits, which had been at their 
lowest ebb, rose, while Violet’s sank, as 
they always sank when any social stim- 
ulant was withdrawn. She replied in 
monosyllables or not at all as she sat on 
a pile of cushions, now and then shoot- 
ing glances from her sleepy cruel eyes 
across to the spot where her elder cousin 
stood talking to Felise. 

“ Do you admire Miss Clairmont ?” she 
asked presently, still playing with the 
heavy fringes of her bracelets, but look- 
ing at her companion for the first time. 

“ Oh yes,” returned Morton coolly : “ I 
am not churlish enough to refuse admi- 
ration to a young and beautiful girl.” 

“What is it you admire in her? Her 
hair, for instance ? — like pale gold bronze, 
is it not ?” 

“ I care very little for the shimmer of 
golden hair.” 

“ But her eyes are so dark — wonder- 
fully appealing eyes : their expression 
fascinates you.” 

“ I am too much fascinated by the ex- 
pression of other dark eyes.” 

“ Is it her smile that bewitches you ? 
Or is it her figure, which is perfect ? Or 
her hands, which have been modeled in 
Rome, you know ? Then her feet are 
exquisite : look at them now as she goes 
up the ladder.” 

Morton smothered something like an 
execration. “What do you mean by 
talking to me about Miss Clairmont in 
this way ? There is but one woman in 
the world for me.” 

Violet smiled, a slow, tantalizing smile. 
“But you declared that you admired 


6 2 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


her. I am anxious to know what is this 
crowning charm which draws all men to 
her feet. There are other cheeks and 
lips whose color comes and goes — some- 
times wandering idly, sometimes answer- 
ing words and glances — other smiles, oth- 
er sweet low voices, yet no one has any 
chance when she is near.” 

Every man in love is occasionally fool 
enough to fancy that a word from him 
may suggest the one lacking grace to 
the woman he declares he perfectly 
adores. y 

“ Miss Clairmont is very pretty, but I 
doubt if a sort of infantile innocence and 
bloom is not one of her chief charms to 
the men who come about her. We all 
love to feel that the woman we love is 
good — so pure that we may safely build 
our religion upon her — that — ” 

“ I am afraid,” exclaimed Violet with 
a shrug and a half laugh, ‘‘that your ro- 
mance is not founded upon fact. Do 
you build your religion upon my good- 
ness, for instance?” 

“ I am certain of your goodness,” Mor- 
ton replied with a painful lack of discern- 
ment; ‘‘and when your careless words 
sometimes lead one to doubt the purity 
of your meaning, I can only attribute it 
to your false idea of the characters of 
men. If you really wish to please me, 
Violet, you would never again talk as 
you have talked to-day.” 

Violet flushed deeply, but was silent, 
and if she felt displeasure did not mani- 
fest it. Servants were carrying about 
coffee and curat^oa, and Leslie Wilmot 
himself came up from the cabin, bring- 
ing Miss Meredith’s coffee-cup in his own 
hand, and offering it to her with a laugh 
at his awkwardness in spilling half its 
contents into the saucer. 

‘‘Thank you,” returned Violet icily, 
“but I prefer a neater cup. — Mr. Mor- 
ton, please get me some coffee.” 

Leslie stared a little, then decided that 
he had been clumsy and stupid, so good- 
naturedly forgot the slight and looked 
about for a place on Violet’s cushion for 
himself. Something in his flushed, tanned 
face and his familiar manner vexed Miss 
Meredith. “Why do you sit down here ?” 
she asked coldly. “Mr. Morton and I 


were conversing. Go and talk to your 
other guests.” 

“ Why, Pansy,” retorted Wilmot heart- 
ily, “ I haven’t said a word to you yet 
since you came on board. Don’t send 
me away. I want a good look at you.” 

“ I told you, Leslie, that you were in- 
terrupting my conversation with Mr. 
Morton.” 

Something in her tone and glance 
aroused even Wilmot’s sluggish imagi- 
nation, and he sprang to his feet. “ The 
devil I am !” he muttered in a passion. 
“ It is always Mr. Morton, Mr. Morton, 
Mr. Morton; and what becomes of the 
man you are engaged to ?” 

“ I think,” said Violet with an air of 
open disgust, “that you might have the 
good taste to spare me such a scene, 
Leslie. I know quite well that you have 
taken too much wine.” 

He turned pale and looked hard at 
her. “You are very strange to me of 
late, Violet,” he murmured in a low 
voice. “ I suppose it is hardly the thing 
for a fellow like me to quarrel with your 
good taste. I have not yet had too much 
wine, but, by Jove, now I will !” And he 
went down to the cabin with a set face. 

Morton brought Violet’s coffee after 
sweetening it and adding cura<;oa with 
his own hands, but she was talking to 
somebody else and ignored his civility. 


CHAPTER XI. 

F rank Layton was at the wharf next 
morning two hours after sunrise, and, un- 
mooring a skiff, jumped in and rowed 
rapidly toward the Pansy, which had 
dropped a mile down the bay. He was 
soon on her deck, where he found that 
an air of activity prevailed, indicating 
preparations for a cruise. Leslie’s man 
came up the companion-way, and in an- 
swer to Frank’s inquiries said that his 
master was still in bed and would see 
no one. 

“He will see me,” returned Frank. 
“Go and tell him I am following you;” 
and, presently entering the state-room, 
he found Wilmot still in his berth. 

He was awake, and stretched out a 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


63 


little brown hand. “You’re a good fel- 
low, Frank,” said he in a choked voice, 
“ but I didn’t expect to see you for some 
time to come.” 

“I woke early,” returned Frank smi- 
ling, “ and it occurred to me that it would 
be just like a certain young fellow, who 
was sure to have a headache this morn- 
ing, to give us the slip and put out to sea. 
A yacht is a deuced convenience at such 
a time. I feel rather responsible for you, 
my dear boy. I’m a considerably older 
man than you : I know a good deal about 
young men’s follies, and I want you to 
treat me like a brother and let me help 
you if you are unhappy and he put his 
hand into Wilmot’s and looked down 
kindly into his face. 

Leslie started up with a sort of howl, 
then presently burst into tears. “You’re 
a good fellow — the best fellow in the 
world,” he gasped, “ and I’m — I’m an 
awful fool.” 

“Very likely,” said Frank. “When 
one is sick away from home, it’s lone- 
some having none of one’s own flesh and 
blood by one’s bedside. I had a fever 
once in a little out-of-the-way Italian 
village : a hideous old woman used to 
give me my medicine and broth, and I 
often felt so babyish I wanted to put my 
arms about her neck and kiss her ; but 
she smelt abominably of garlic, and real- 
ly I was not brave enough, so I got well 
finally without yielding to my inclina- 
tion.” 

Leslie laughed. “ I know,” he exclaim- 
ed, his laugh suddenly turning into a 
groan : “ I wanted to see my mother this 
morning.” 

“ I told Thomas to bring some coffee,” 
observed Frank, “and here it comes. 
Now, Leslie, get up and take a cup with 
me and within five minutes the two 
men were sitting opposite each other at 
the table in the cabin, Frank calm and 
easy as ever, Leslie huddled into a costly 
dressing-gown, his face flushed and his 
eyes full of uneasy shame. 

“Tell me, Frank,” he whispered, lean- 
ing his elbows on the table and burying 
his face in his hands, “ did I disgrace my- 
self awfully last night ? I can’t remem- 
ber much about it.” 


“To my mind,” said Frank, “being 
drunk is a disgrace, and its consequences 
are not so contemptible as the condition. 
But you behaved badly enough to be 
thoroughly disgusted with yourself Still, 
take comfort in one thing : nobody saw 
you but Maurice and myself. As soon 
as we learned how things were going, we 
frightened the ladies by a prediction of 
a thunder-shower, and the party broke 
up in too much disorder for anybody to 
miss you.” 

“ But Mr. Layton saw me,” gurgled 
Wilmot. “What did he think of me ?” 

“I didn’t come to preach,” returned 
Frank, “nor to tell you. that anybody 
thought badly of you. You have been a 
fool, and now I am sure you repent your 
folly, and determine to hold by your 
manhood in future. I hope this is not 
your habit. I should be sorry to think 
that you take pleasure in excesses. Be 
candid with me now, although if you 
confess you are often drunk I shall be 
grievously disappointed in you.” 

Leslie hung his head. “I’ll say one 
thing for myself, Frank,” he answered 
after a pause : “such a thing never hap- 
pened before when there were ladies about 
— on my honor, now. I’m not such a beast 
as that. But I haven’t lived with men 
like you,” he went on, rubbing his fists 
into his eyes, “ and I’ve just been a jolly 
fellow among jolly fellows. I know it 
was a beastly shame for me to behave so, 
but I was all right until Violet looked at 
me with such infernal scorn. That just 
woke up the devil in me.” 

“What’s this? Have you and Violet 
quarreled ? I want to hear all about it.” 

“ I’m ready to tell you,” said Leslie 
sullenly. “ It is not very good form to 
tell tales of women, but it’s high time I 
understood matters. Violet Meredith is 
the handsomest and best-bred woman in 
England — God bless her! — but she has 
not acted fairly by me since I came to 
America.” 

“ She is my cousin, and very dear to 
me,” observed Frank succinctly. “You 
must answer to me for any accusation 
you make against her.” 

Leslie stared. “Look here, Frank,” 
he exclaimed, “you must know what 


6 4 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


every man in London says about her. 
Why, when I first got spoony on her ac- 
count, half of our fellows warned me to 
look out, for that she was the most dev- 
ilish coquette in the kingdom. I beg 
your pardon, Frank, but half a dozen 
swore they knew everything about the 
way she treated Harcourt — how she play- 
ed with him until she made him wild, 
then flung him over and let him go to 
the devil. Then there was a host of oth- 
ers quite as bad, except that they were 
already too far on the broad road to be 
hurt by her. Indeed, they assured me 
she had no more heart than a stone, but 
made men infatuated with her just from 
a deadly love of amusement. I never 
believed ’em. I’ve heard men talk, and 
I know that when a woman hurts their 
confounded pride they comfort them- 
selves by telling plenty of lies about her. 
Well, she accepted me. I wanted her 
to be married at Easter, but no, she was 
not ready. I gave her until October, 
although I saw no propriety in the delay, 
for every newspaper was trumpeting * an 
affair in high life,’ and I felt like a fool. 
Now, Frank, you know the sort of man 
I was before I became engaged. I 
wasn’t brought up strictly : I had more 
money than I could spend wisely, so I 
spent it foolishly. On my soul, I wish I 
hadn’t. But it was too late for me to 
do more than mend my ways. Pansy 
has had nothing to reproach me with 
since the day she promised to marry 
me.” Frank nodded. “ She was never 
very kind to me,” pursued Leslie. ‘‘But 
I never expected much more than tole- 
ration from her : I’m not the sort of fel- 
low to inspire devotion in a handsome 
woman. What am I beside her, so beau- 
tiful and clever as she is ? But she ac- 
cepted me, and it was natural to believe 
that she liked me a little. I would have 
kissed the floor she trod on : when she 
has not let me touch her hand I have 
played spoony over the flower she has 
worn. That’s the way I have loved her,” 
he said in a choked voice. “ It may be 
it’s a dog’s love, but it is the feeling I 
have for her. I would be content to have 
her go into the world and be courted and 
worshiped ; she might spend my money 


like water to give her pleasure ; I know 
that a gay life would be merely her 
amusement — that it could not fill her 
heart — that she would turn to something 
plain and true, sure to be hers whatever 
happened. I tjould be that to her, and 
perhaps something more.” He paused 
again. 

‘‘Go on,” said Frank. 

“ Well,” resumed Wilmot, “ then came 
her freak of visiting the States, and I 
followed her here. I was afraid she 
would not like it, but she seemed glad 
to see me. I brought her those opals 
she wore yesterday, and when she put 
them on she kissed me of her own ac- 
cord and he flushed deeper than ever. 
“ She had never been so kind before. In 
fact,” he went on more hastily, ‘‘she has 
been cordial enough at times ; but, Frank” 
— here Leslie’s hand tightened around 
Frank’s arm as he looked imploringly 
into his face — “ why is she so possessed 
about that fellow Morton ?” 

“ He is an old friend, once her tutor.” 

‘‘Oh yes, I know all that, and that she 
had a childish love-affair with him. That 
is none of my concern. Only her pres- 
ent and future belong to me. What is 
he to her now?” 

Their eyes met, and Wilmot’s glance 
,was keen and suspicious enough. 

“ On my honor,” said Frank, “ I believe 
them to be nothing to each other but the 
merest good friends.” 

Leslie shook his head. “ He is madly 
in love with her,” said he slowly; “and, 
what is more, Violet encourages him.” 

“Pshaw!” ejaculated Frank, “you’re 
jealous.” 

“Of course I am. Nevertheless, he is 
in love with her, and from some reason 
or other she fools him to the top of his 
bent. She is generally very particular 
to have the men about her well born and 
bred, no matter what their other virtues 
are ; but Morton is a literary man, clever 
no doubt, but with no antecedents, so far 
as I ever heard, and all my acquaintances 
in London consider him rather a cad.” 

“ He is my intimate friend,” remarked 
Frank. 

“ Excuse me : I do not wish to say one 
word against him. Heaven knows he is 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


a handsomer man than I, and a cleverer 
and a better one, but, for all that, he is 
not just the sort of man Violet has been 
used to all her life. However, that makes 
no odds to me : I am no snob, and think 
aristocracy about played out. But Violet 
has long talks with him, and always alone : 
before others they barely speak. There 
are certain songs she sings to him, and 
only to him : he reads to her — he — he 
offers all those ten thousand little ser- 
vices which it pleases a man so to be al- 
lowed to perform for a handsome woman, 
and when I asked her to take my arm, 
to let me wrap her cloak about her, to 
let me button her gloves, she is regularly 
bored and says, ‘ Engaged people do not 
pay each other attention, cela va sails 
dire.' But I contend that it all does not 
go without saying. When a man is mar- 
ried his wife has yielded him so much 
that he can afford to draw back and allow 
others to enjoy his minor privileges — dan- 
cing with her, putting her in the carriage, 
and so on. But I’ll be hanged if I don’t 
think that when a man is only engaged 
he wants his attentions received more 
cordially than those of outsiders.” 

Frank was silent for a moment; then 
spoke with an effort: ‘‘Violet is a born 
coquette, Wilmot: you had better make 
up your mind to that.” 

“ But do you think she cares for me ?” 

“ On my soul I do. She told me she 
had never been so contented as since 
her engagement to you — that she felt at 
peace and sure of a happy future.” 

‘‘Did she, though?” exclaimed Leslie 
with a break in his voice. He mused a 
little. “ But you did not see the look she 
gave me last night. By Heaven, she 
seemed to loathe me. She had smiles 
for Morton, kind words for Morton, but 
with my jewels on her breast, my flowers 
in her hands, my engagement-ring on 
her finger, she would not even tolerate 
me near her ; but — ” 

“ I know, my boy, I know,” interposed 
Frank. “ But I am certain she is sorry 
for it by this time.” 

“ I will give her a chance to enjoy Mor- 
ton’s intellectual conversation uncheck- 
ed,” pursued Leslie violently. ‘‘Mean- 
while, I will go off on a week’s cruise, 
5 


65 

and get drunk every night, that she may 
have the satisfaction of knowing I am the 
beast she thought me yesterday.” 

“ You will do nothing of the sort,” cried 
Frank: ‘‘you will dress and go home 
with me to breakfast.” 

But Leslie’s brow contracted stubborn- 
ly.' “ No, I shall not see Violet for a fort- 
night at least. I am going to send for 
Major Ogden and his cousin, and by 
eleven o’clock to-day we shall be thirty 
miles away. When I get ready to come 
back, I will ask Miss Meredith what her 
views are regarding our engagement. I 
don’t mind some bitter with the sweet, 
but I’ve had all the bitter and no sweet 
quite long enough.” 

44 If you are determined on a cruise,” 
said Frank smiling, “let me have a berth. 
Why could we not go to Newport ? I can 
give you plenty of pleasant introductions 
there. I am longing to see Newport, but 
if you prefer the Ogdens — ” 

Leslie brightened up. “ I would rather 
have you than any man alive,” he cried 
heartily. “ I don’t go in for neat speeches, 
Frank, but I’d like you to know that I 
never before saw a man who was so com- 
pletely a good fellow, at the same time 
that he never ceased to be a splendid 
gentleman.” 

All Frank’s arrangements for a fort- 
night’s absence were made when an hour 
or so later he entered his brother’s room 
at the cottage. Maurice was writing, and 
looked up startled. 

“ What has happened ?” he asked. 
“You look as if you were going on a 
journey.” 

“So I am,” returned Frank with a 
rather melancholy laugh. “ I start for 
Newport with Wilmot in the Pansy at 
half-past ten.” 

“What on earth is the meaning of 
that?” demanded Maurice curiously, his 
mind reverting instantly to his brother’s 
love-affair. “You don’t mean to tell me 
that you have offered yourself and been 
refused.” 

The blood rushed to Frank’s face. 
“You’re as bad as I am, Maurice,” said 
he laughing. “ But don’t treat me like 
a boy who has but one thought in his 
head. Miss Clairmont has not refused 


66 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


me yet: I am not running away from 
her. But Violet has been playing her 
old games with Wilmot, and unless we 
take some pains her engagement will be 
broken off. Leslie is stubborn enough 
in his resolution not to see her for a fort- 
night, and was going to take those army- 
men on a cruise. But they are such a 
bad lot there is no telling where their 
influence would carry him. It’s a trial, 
of course, leaving you all, but I think it 
better to take care of him until his trou- 
ble with Pansy blows over.” 

“ It is very good-natured of you, Frank, 
but is it worth your while to keep a fool 
out of the folly he must indulge in ?” 

‘‘Leslie is not the fool you think him. 
Besides, it is always worth the while of 
an idle man like me to put out his hand 
and keep his brother from falling. God 
knows, most of us need a little help 
sooner or later, and this boy is easily 
guided. Maurice, I want you to under- 
take the ungracious task of telling Mor- 
ton that his attentions to Violet are not 
only unacceptable to her family, but an 
insult as well. Leslie can’t hear his 
n^me mentioned without getting in a 
passion.” 

‘‘It is Violet who deserves scolding. 
Morton merely obeys her caprices.” 

‘‘Scold Violet by all means,” said 
Frank, looking at his watch. ‘‘She is 
going to breakfast with me now, and 
I shall give her my opinion upon her 
behavior. Well, good-bye, old fellow !” 
The two men grasped each other’s hands 
and exchanged long glances. “ I’m aw- 
fully sorry to go,” said poor Frank. 

“I’m disgusted at any necessity for 
your doing so. You’ll see Miss Clair- 
mont first, I hope.” 

“You need have no doubt of it.” 

Violet was waiting for Frank in the 
breakfast -room in a delightful toilette, 
and with a manner which seemed the 
happy result of a conscience void of all 
knowledge of offence committed. Noth- 
ing could be more airy than her spirits, 
nothing more bewildering than the sport- 
iveness of her replies to his rather severe 
accusations. Frank found himself laugh- 
ing at her wit in spite of his resolutions 
of severity, and her easy-going humor 


almost persuaded him that there could 
have been no substantial reason for com- 
plaint against her except for levity. She 
laughed unmercifully at Morton and the 
idea of her entertaining a preference for 
him — laughed at everything, in fact ; and 
when her cousin insisted on her sending 
a kind message to Wilmot, she ran into 
the garden, pulled a sprig of heliotrope, 
put it to her lips once and begged him to 
carry that to her lover. 

“ That is nothing but a foolish coquet- 
tish trick,” said Frank, placing it in his 
pocket-book. “What possible satisfac- 
tion can there be for a sensible man in 
such a love-token as this?” 

“ I am sure I have no idea,” retorted 
Violet, “but watch its effect upon Leslie. 
Yet very likely he is not a sensible man. 
You may not care for my kisses ; still, if 
Miss Clairmont’s lips had touched the 
flower she gave you, what then ?” 

“ Nonsense !” cried Frank. “ But I do 
care for your kisses, Pansy : give me one 
now ;” and she allowed him that cousin- 
ly privilege with a laughing air. She 
was never in such good spirits as when 
she was doing mischief. How many 
lovers she had had before whom she had 
piqued, maddened, driven into revolt ! 
They could not forget her, and could no 
more give her up than she could let them 
go, and presently they came back ready 
to submit and crouch at her feet for more 
of her kisses, blows, spurnings as the hu- 
mor seized her. 

Frank thought of all this as he went 
up the hill to bid Felise good-bye. He 
was a little bitter toward his cousin in his 
heart, although she was almost as dear 
to him as if she had been his sister, but 
he knew her so well, her thousand faults, 
her thousand charms. If she were love- 
ly, was she not yet imperious, arrogant, 
light-minded, almost false ? What weary 
unreasonableness her beautiful lips could 
express ! She was not a woman for 
Frank’s imagination to kindle over : lov- 
ing her was an intoxication, an excess, a 
rich draught of passion it might be ; but 
he was not the man to drain a cup into 
which, like the Eastern queen, he had 
melted his richest j ewel. When he loved 
he wanted a guarantee for his future as 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


6 7 


well as bliss in the present. He had 
striven all his life to be temperate even 
in desire. “ Not too much,” was his mot- 
to. Just now he was, as may be seen, 
irretrievably in love — passionately anx- 
ious to end his suspense and arrive at a 
complete happiness — yet since he must 
wait there lurked a fine pleasure even 
in his present uncertainty : there was so 
much to muse over, to consider, to adjust 
in his nice scale of possibilities, since he 
was certain they balanced favorably for 
his own hopes. 

Frank found Mrs. Knight in her din- 
ing-room washing her fragile breakfast 
porcelain, and after making his adieux 
to her he went into the garden, where he 
came upon Felise sitting in the summer- 
house reading to Mr. Knight. She was 
at his feet, both his hands clasping hers 
as she held them up to him over her 
shoulders, her eyes fixed upon a great 
volume in her lap. Her uncle was the 
first to discover the intruder on this peace- 
ful scene, and as soon as he heard that 
Frank had come to say good-bye he 
sauntered away abstractedly among the 
flower-beds, his hands folded behind 
him. 

“ I must go and get his hat, dear old 
man !” said Felise looking after him, and 
wishing in her heart he had not left her 
alone with this audacious lover : “ he will 
be blinded by the sun and have a head- 
ache.” 

‘‘No, indeed,” cried Frank: ‘‘the sun 
is half obscured. Your concern is wasted 
on him. Show a little for me.” 

“ But I do not like to hear that you are 
going away. I think it very dissipated 
and wild on your part.” 

“ Confess that you are sorry.” 

“ Oh no : I shall say nothing to flatter 
you. But, in truth, I do not know what 
we shall do without you.” 

“ I will tell you what to do,” observed 
Frank softly. ‘‘Think all the time of 
what I said to you yesterday.” 

‘‘What did you say?” she asked with 
an apparent effort to remember. ‘‘You 
talked too much to let any one observa- 
tion make any impression upon me.” 

Frank smiled significantly. “ You have 
blushed over it a thousand times already,” 


said he. “ It is I who see your cheeks at 
present, mademoiselle. Now, Felise, tell 
me you are sorry I am going away. Don’t 
begrudge me that consolation.” 

But she only laughed. 

■“ I must say good-bye,” he exclaimed 
with a sigh after a little pause. ‘‘ Bid me 
good-bye, Felise.” 

She made him a distracting little curt- 
sey. ‘‘Good-bye,” she said smiling. 

‘‘Will you not shake hands ?” 

She extended both her hands, and he 
clasped them and drew them toward his 
lips. 

‘‘Oh no,” she murmured, withdrawing 
them, a trifle embarrassed. 

‘‘You are very rigid in your ideas,” 
cried Frank, not in the least repelled, 
for, after all, he did not expect permis- 
sion to do as he liked with her little 
hands — as 'yet. And there was a trem- 
ulousness in the lowered lids of her eyes 
and the fitful color on her cheeks which 
assuved him that this ice of maidenly re- 
serve was so transparent as to allow him 
a delicious vista of some tumults of mind 
she was experiencing. “ I think,” he add- 
ed very softly, standing very close to her 
and stooping to whisper in her ear, “that 
one little kiss upon your hands would do 
you small harm. Think how presump- 
tuous I am. Some day, not very remote 
either, when you trust me a little more, 
I intend to kiss your hands unforbidden 
by you.” 

“Oh no!” 

“More than that — your forehead too.” 

“Oh no !” 

“Even your cheek, Felise.” 

“Oh no ! oh no !” 

“More yet,” said Frank with a sly 
smile at her hauteur, at which he was 
quite undismayed, “but I should not 
venture to put that supreme happiness 
in words, for fear of being struck by 
lightning on the spot. But I shall do it 
nevertheless. Now, Felise, dear Felise-, 
one kind little word and I am off.” 

As Frank drove to the dock his scale 
of possibilities balanced so creditably on 
the side of his hopes that he was almost 
glad to be going away, since parting had 
given him an excuse for an interview 
like this. 


68 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


CHAPTER XII. 

After his brother’s departure Mau- 
rice felt inclined to go up and look after 
the welfare of Miss Clairmont, and ex- 
perienced a glow of virtue when he put 
that temptation behind him and wrote 
on a political question all the long morn- 
ing instead. 

“ I will give her a chance to feel lone- 
ly and pine after poor Frank,” he said 
to himself every time he turned a fresh 
page ; and when, on going down to lunch- 
eon at half-past one, he heard that Mrs. 
Meredith and Violet and Morton had 
spent the morning with her, listening to 
her singing, he was inclined to be ag- 
grieved. 

‘‘Quite a musical morning,” remarked 
Violet. ‘‘Felise sang enchantingly. I 
constantly expected that you would drop 
in, Maurice. In fact, my particular rea- 
son for going to Mrs. Knight’s was that 
I might have the pleasure of seeing you : 
I never have five minutes of your society 
here except at dinner.” 

‘‘Well, then,” said Maurice, helping 
himself to cold chicken, ‘‘suppose we 
have a ride this afternoon, and you shall 
enjoy my intellectual society to your 
heart’s content. It is a long time since 
we rode together, Pansy.” 

Violet flushed deeply. 

‘‘Miss Clairmont will dine with us,” 
observed Mrs. Meredith. “Can you 
think of any proper man, Maurice, to 
make a sixth at the table?” 

“ Invite your profound friend, Mr. 
Knight, mamma.” 

“ I thought of that, but I cannot ask 
him without his wife, and she would 
make it a party. But how I do love to 
talk to Mr. Knight!” 

“What on earth do you find to talk 
about ?” 

“We talk about the glacial period and 
drift, deposits and evolution. He was 
telling me only this morning about the 
kitchen-middens in Denmark. Now, I 
like a man who can talk about kitchen- 
middens. There is nothing common- 
place about such a subject.” 

“I should fancy not,” remarked Violet 
dryly. “ Pray let us hear what they are, 
mamma.” 


“ I am charmed to be able to tell you. 
About thirty thousand years ago — ” 

“ Thirty thousand years!” cried Mor- 
ton. “ Spare my scruples, Mrs. Mere- 
dith : I’m an orthodox man myself.” 

“Very well. The most alarming fig- 
ures are consistent with the Bible record 
now-a-days. Call each day of Genesis 
a period of a few million of years. Save 
your scruples, be orthodox, and let mam- 
ma proceed.” 

“ Well,” resumed Mrs. Meredith, 
“ about thirty thousand years ago a race 
of men existed in Denmark who must 
have eaten with the most magnificent 
appetites, for the bones of the animals 
they devoured made huge piles which 
are still to be seen, and which are called 
kitchen-middens : why. Heaven and per- 
haps Mr. Knight know. I confess I for- 
got to ask the meaning of the name. 
Now, you dig into these remains and you 
find the little hatchets of the pre-historic 
man, and also — Oh, you find quantities 
of droll things, which, if you have a log- 
ical mind, thoroughly convince you about 
all sorts of theories. Now, is not that 
original ?” 

“ Oh, very : so fascinating too ! What 
else did he tell you ?” 

“We usually discuss evolution,” re- 
turned Mrs. Meredith solemnly, drink- 
ing tea all the time. “ I was quite ready 
for him there, as I had read all about 
it in a French book, and was delighted 
with the idea that we had all been fish 
and wriggled, and monkeys and hung 
on trees by our tails, and little dogs and 
bitten people’s calves. It seemed to me 
very reasonable, and I quite doted on 
the belief that if we wanted wings, and 
accordingly went about selecting our 
husbands and wives with a view to their 
having a peculiar formation of shoulder- 
blades, our remote descendants would 
finally be able to fly. It was quite clear 
in. my own mind, but Mr. Knight con- 
siders my ideas, rather too advanced. He 
says that the feminine mind revels in 
deductive theories, and regards facts as 
too precise and empirical, but that I may 
safely go as far as this in declaring that 
steady developing changes have resulted 
in the present system of things, and that 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


69 


there exists sufficient evidentiary proof 
that the general always comes before 
the special, and that specialization is 
probably not yet exhausted. Now, is 
not that delicious ? Not precisely clear, 
you know, but so profound ! Is it not 
droll for me to have got hold of such 
clever opinions ?” 

“Very,” sighed Violet. “Won’t some- 
body else say something learned ? It’s 
painful to have to listen to it, yet it gives 
me a thrill of pride to move in circles 
where the highest intelligence prevails.” 

“ I knew something once about a sau- 
rian,” said Morton, “but, on my word, 
I’ve forgotten it.” 

“Maurice.,” cried Violet, annoyed by 
her cousin’s abstraction, “what makes 
you so silent of late ?” 

“ I was thinking,” he blandly remark- 
ed, “that it is a very curious historical 
fact that Rome was saved by the cackling 
of geese.” 

“I am not sure what rudeness you 
mean by that, but the moral of the story 
is that a little folly is occasionally good 
for men. — Mamma, why is it my admir- 
ers never give me any ideas ? They only 
talk to me about myself.” 

“It must ]pe a tremendous bore,” said 
Maurice rising : “I rarely afflict you in 
that way.” 

“You never speak to me at all. If 
you did, I suppose you would talk sau- 
rians or some other monsters at me. You 
would not tell me of yourself — your hopes, 
your ambitions.” 

“ Would I not ? Depend upon it, Pan- 
sy, every man loves to talk about him- 
self. But I am wise enough not to do 
it except to a woman who has too little 
vanity to sacrifice my earnestness to her 
egotism. Most of us when we address 
your sex, being anxious to please you, 
talk to you about yourselves, and achieve 
success.” 

“You maybe anxious to pleaes, but as 
to your pleasing us, cest d' autre chose. 
Most of us have for our ideal the old- 
fashioned hero, who could say less but 
feel more than the silver-tongued wooers 
of to-day. It is not so much what one 
says as what one feels that makes the 
charm even of a flirtation.” 


Morton left the cottage as soon as 
he had lunched, feeling rather incensed 
that Maurice should have spoiled his 
afternoon by arranging a long ride with 
Miss Meredith. Yet he ought to have 
been glad of a chance to work, for his 
novel had lagged in its interest for him 
of late, and required every moment of 
his time for the next two months if he 
was to fulfill his engagement. Mrs. Mer- 
edith finished her tea, and took her fa- 
vorite sofa and the latest magazines, and 
went fast to sleep in five minutes. Mau- 
rice sat down in the hall for another look 
at the papers, and became at once so ab- 
sorbed that he forgot his engagement, 
and Violet came down dressed for her 
ride and stood beside him for some mo- 
ments quite unperceived, looking at him 
fixedly with some bitterness in her face. 
At last, tiring of the sight of his frown- 
ing brows knit in wrath over some oppo- 
sition leading article, she drew off her 
gauntlet and put her white hand on his 
shoulder. 

“The horses have come round, Mau- 
rice,” said she. 

He looked up and smiled in her face, 
then turned his head and kissed the 
warm, soft hand. “ I had quite forgot- 
ten,” said he. “How handsome you 
are in your habit, Pansy !” 

She flushed, and her face lit up with 
the joy of a glad child, but she drew her 
hand away and said nothing. Maurice 
cast a despairing glance at his unfinish- 
ed column, and felt inclined to ask a 
half hour’s grace, but finally decided 
that he must attend to his cousin. Ac- 
cordingly, he bounded up stairs and re- 
turned in five minutes ready for his ride. 
Violet waved away the groom who offer- 
ed to mount her, and accepted her cou- 
sin’s services instead. He watched her 
admiringly as she settled herself in the 
saddle with a single movement which 
perfectly adjusted dress, whip and reins. 

“ I remember your admirable horse- 
manship,” said he, springing into his 
own saddle. “You do a great many 
things remarkably well, but nothing bet- 
ter than you ride. The point of success 
with you is that you understand a horse.” 

] “Yes, three species of creatures I un- 


70 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


derstand — horses, dogs and men. Cats 
and women I can do nothing with.” 

“ I always doubt any woman’s know- 
ledge of men, but I think you know some- 
thing of the traits of a horse, unlike the 
rest of your sex, who have faint appre- 
ciation of the animal’s points provided 
he rears delightfully and holds his head 
high. But how constantly you make these 
stinging speeches, Pansy ! Is there no 
woman in the world of whom you are 
fond ?” 

‘‘Yes, I admire and love mamma, and 
sometimes even Miss Clairmont.” 

‘‘Only at times you love Miss Clair- 
mont?” 

‘‘Only at times. I am envious of nei- 
ther her youth nor her beauty, but yet — ” 
something in her tone made Maurice turn 
to his cousin, who looked straight before 
her — ‘‘it is hard to see another gaining 
easily the sweet and beautiful prizes of 
which I despair.” 

‘‘I don’t understand you,” said Mau- 
rice, puzzled, yet realizing that some 
meaning personal to himself was hidden 
behind her words. 

“ Let us ride fast,” answered Violet in- 
appositely. “ Can we not gain that high 
ground ? It is so warm here among the 
trees.” 

They rode fleetly on for two miles or 
more, and gained the hills, which from 
the distance had been impurpled with 
midsummeiHridescence. Not a word had 
been spoken. Maurice was as quiet as 
he looked, although his face had gained 
a little excitement from their exhilarating 
gallop. Violet studied his features now 
and then, as if she would gain a clew to 
his thoughts. She could never be alone 
with him but that any silence between 
them contained a weight of meaning for 
her, half awing her with a vague terror, 
half opening to her a vista of happiness 
full, for her longing woman’s heart, of 
the splendors of heaven itself. 

She drew her rein presently. “ Let us 
walk our horses,” she said, ‘‘This re- 
minds me of home.” Maurice looked 
about him, smiled and shook his head. 
‘‘Oh, I know it is different,” pursued Vi- 
olet. “ You have none of our cultivated 
picturesqueness here; still, that lane is 


very like the one which leads up to F arm- 
er Hopkins’s. Don’t you remember? 
It goes past the weir, and ends at the 
north gate of the park?” 

“ Yes, I see the resemblance now. We 
often took that way home when we had 
been to the Abbey.” 

‘‘I am glad you have not forgotten 
those days.” 

‘‘I have not forgotten them,” return- 
ed Maurice hastily, ‘‘but I rarely recall 
them. In fact,” he added more coolly, 
glad to gain a point where he could gen- 
eralize, “after a man passes thirty-five, 
until he is sixty or more, he does not in- 
dulge himself in retrospection, for he has 
learned the value of the present moment.” 

“Yet, Maurice, you have not forgotten 
your visit at the Grange ?” Violet had 
turned so completely in her saddle that 
her cousin saw her full face flushed and 
tremulous with shining eyes. 

“I recall it as I do a dream,” he an- 
swered coolly. 

“A dream!” she cried passionately. 
“For me, at least, it was no dream. It 
was my season of youth and happiness, 
of hope, of infinite belief in the future. 
I am old now — not perhaps in years, but 
at heart — old, dreary, hopeless. I have 
valued nothing which has come to me 
since then. I have taken no real inte- 
rest in life, merely keeping my place in 
the world, fighting to gain more love and 
admiration than other women have, while 
all the time the men who have seemed 
most to please me have been little more 
than lay figures who could pose them- 
selves and talk. One memory of a dif- 
ferent man has been so full of life that 
these creatures have been like apparitions 
compared with the thought of him ; yet — ” 

Maurice stopped her with an imperious 
gesture. Her words humiliated him as 
they had humiliated him ten years before. 

“ My dear cousin,” he said gently, “let 
us remember the old times by all means, 
since you wish it. For my own part, I 
had the most delightful vacation after 
five years of hard work. As you sug- 
gest, we were both younger then, but 
you are a thousand times more beauti- 
ful than you were at eighteen : time has 
robbed you of nothing. I have no desire 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


71 


to be any younger. Accordingly, what 
has either of us to forget ? We are each 
almost on the threshold of married life, 
and marriage comes to us in a shape that 
ensures satisfaction, for both of us have 
some worldliness which — ” 

Violet interrupted him in her turn. 
“Something tells me,” she exclaimed 
with a searching look into his face, “ that 
you will never marry Miss Clifford.” 

Maurice stared at her in amazement. 
“Good Heavens! why not? What do 
you mean ?” 

“Because,” she said with a cruel face 
and a sweet soft voice — “ because you are 
in love with another and a very different 
woman.” 

He looked impassive. “ Do you mean 
to hint that I am in love with you, Vio- 
let?” he asked with some sarcasm in his 
voice. 

“That is ungenerous, Maurice.” 

“Forgive me, Pansy. Whom do you 
refer to ?” 

“You see her every day, Maurice.” 

He frowned darkly. “Your suspicion 
— well, no, I do not believe that you have 
any such suspicion,” he said deliberately 
— “but your suggestion would affront me 
did I not remember that women, although 
more delicate than ourselves in some es- 
sentials, iruothers lack nicety of percep- 
tion. A man would never utter such a 
treason before me : he would not dare to 
seem to disbelieve in my honor.” 

Violet burst out laughing. 

“You were joking, then,” observed 
Maurice tranquilly. 

“ Can you doubt it ? Excuse me if my 
remarks were scarcely in good taste. You 
ought to forgive my careless words, Mau- 
rice, for you know, you alone know, why I 
am not a happy woman. Don’t be afraid 
of me, however. I love you too well — 
of that I am quite aware : I love you so 
well that sometimes I hate you, and long 
to make you suffer. But a woman should 
be forgiven for feeling an unreasonable 
rancor toward a man who has not appre- 
ciated her regard. Should you actually 
fall in love with Felise, I think I could 
not survive it. You do not love Rosa- 
mond, but I can endure that you should 
marry her. I do not envy her: I can 


even wish you both all sorts of happiness, 
both for this world and the next, for I do 
not believe your bliss here will jeopardize 
your rewards hereafter. Should you real- 
ly fall in love — But, no : I am done. 
Well-tanned man of the world as you 
are, I embarrass you. Do not reply to 
me. As I said before, I am done.” 

She had stopped her horse, and even 
laid her hand on Maurice’s bridle to de- 
tain him while she was speaking. Her 
voice had been tremulous, but such a 
look her cousin had never seen upon her 
face before. Her eyebrows were drawn 
together, her lips were stiff, her eyes dull 
and heavy-lidded. When she ceased a 
faint color suffused her cheeks and tears 
gushed to her eyes. 

“Now let us go home,” she cried with 
spirit. “ It must be almost time to dress 
for dinner, and I would not miss making 
a toilette with care when Felise is to be 
near me. Ah, those young girls, Mau- 
rice — and, of all girls, those enchanting 
blondes — are so irradiated by Nature with 
all allurements that an old woman of the 
world like me requires to study her dress 
for hours before the glass in order to com- 
pare with them.” 

“Yes,” said Maurice, drawing out his 
watch in just his usual manner, “ it is al- 
most five o’clock — quite time that we 
turned our horses.” 

They rode home with few words be- 
tween them. Maurice had invited his 
cousin to ride with him in'order both to 
withdraw her from Morton and to per- 
suade her to discontinue her intimacy 
with him. But, on the whole, he had 
decided to put off that conversation until 
a convenient season, for to-day Violet’s 
tactics seemed the reverse of defensive. 

Miss Clairmont came to dinner at six 
o’clock, and found the people at the cot- 
tage all disposed to be dull and fault- 
finding with the wind or the weather or 
Frank Layton’s absence. Mrs. Meredith 
had slept too long on her sofa with her lap 
full of serials. Morton had taken a soli- 
tary walk, and, having time to look certain 
questions square in the face, felt not alto- 
gether proud of the part he was playing 
in Saintford ; Violet was in her most in- 
different mood ; and Maurice was like a 


7.2 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


glacier. But a few words from Felise 
amused everybody so much that the low 
spirits of the party were quite dispelled. 
“It seems so lonely,” she said with the 
frank regret of a child, looking about 
her, “not to see Mr. Frank Layton. I 
wish he had not gone away.” 

It would be hard to tell wherein lay 
the magic of these simple words to clear 
Maurice’s brow and illumine Violet, for, 
after all, they were not so simple or true 
as they ought to have been. Felise, per- 
haps by way of silencing any self-accusa- 
tions, had lately begun to consider that 
by and by perhaps Mr. Frank Layton 
would be more to her than any one else 
in the world. And since all this day she 
had not missed him at all, and since now, 
on coming to the cottage, she felt a pre- 
sentiment of her usual happiness in Mau- 
rice’s presence stealing over her, being a 
good little girl, she decided she must play 
the hypocrite and declare that Frank’s 
absence impressed her sorrowfully. 

“ Miss Clairmont,” exclaimed Maurice, 
unthawing at once, “ that speech of yours 
is absolutely heartless toward the rest of 
us ; yet, all the same, I will write it to 
Frank before I go to bed to-night.” 

“We all miss Frank,” sighed Mrs. 
Meredith as they went out to dinner. 
“Felise, dear child, he is the perfection 
of a host, the only man I ever knew who 
spends a large portion of his income in 
entertaining his friends, yet does not re- 
Day himself by boring them. All other 
hosts expect you to talk to them when 
you are tired ; they take you walks to 
show you views ; they exult over some 
frightful pavilion they have erected after 
their own designs ; they insist upon your 
listening to the history of the hideous 
family portraits : in short, they make you 
hate them with a deadly hatred.” 

“I agree with you, Mrs. Meredith,” 
said Morton. “ Do you know Angus ? 
We were together a good deal in Lon- 
don, and when he asked me to go down 
to his place, I accepted with pleasure. 
But how awful he was ! He had a prize 
pig, which he insisted upon my looking at 
twice a day. He had half a dozen bull- 
terriers and pups, who slept with him, ate 
with him, and kept me in terror of my 


life, as they regarded me as their natural 
enemy. Then he was ‘ restoring ’ his 
church, and used to knock me up before 
daybreak to communicate some inspira- 
tion of mediaeval style which had occurred 
to him during the night. After dinner 
he would say, ‘ Now, Morton, you’re a 
literary man, and I want to know if this 
is so very bad ;’ and he would read his 
verses aloud until past midnight. In 
short, I couldn’t stand it, and wrote to 
King to telegraph me that he was dead 
or something, so that I could go back to 
town.” 

“ I have an ideal of a host,” remarked 
Mrs. Meredith pensively, “which is very 
nice indeed. He should be dumb, but 
might have a frequent and pleasing smile ; 
he should be something of an invalid, 
that his health might incapacitate him 
from trotting one about to show views 
and landscape-effects ; he, as a simple 
matter of course, should prefer that din- 
ner should be kept waiting to suit the 
convenience of his guests — that his en- 
gravings should be rolled and creased — 
the leaves in his rarest books turned 
down, and his horses lamed. But noth- 
ing should so perfectly please him as to 
have one take possession of his own 
sacred, peculiar, individual easy-chair by 
the fire in winter and the window in sum- 
mer, and read his daily paper through 
before he has a chance to look at it.” 

“ Frank ought to please you, mamma,” 
said Violet. 

W“He does, he really does. He never 
obres me. Although boring has become 
such a fine art that it seems impossible 
for two people to be for ten mi-nutes in 
each other’s society without boring each 
other, Frank has never yet bored me. 
Still, he has not entirely settled down yet, 
and one never knows what dreary ego- 
tism lies undeveloped beneath a man’s 
fine manners until he becomes a ftere de 
famille . Accordingly, let him be mar- 
ried for five years before I commit my- 
self entirely in my judgment of his cha- 
racter. — Felise, dear child, have you ever 
been in Frank’s library ? I made a study 
of it this afternoon. I like to look quiet- 
ly around where a civilized man has col- 
lected the things which he likes best. 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


73 


Now, Frank is what I call a highly-civ- 
ilized man.” 

In fact, it was the fashion to-night to 
talk of the absent host in a strain of pan- 
egyric, and every one said such flatter- 
ing things that it might readily have been 
believed that Frank was a rich old man 
on his deathbed, with a fortune to be- 
queath to the one who praised him most. 
The ladies finally went into the library 
to look at his own particular belongings, 
and left Maurice and Morton together. 
Conversation lagged at once between the 
two gentlemen, who neither spoke nor 
smoked nor touched the wine. Maurice 
occupied himself over his papers and 
letters, and Morton lay back in his chair, 
his profile outlined against the crimson 
velvet cushion as he moodily stared out 
of the window. 

‘‘I am keeping you from the ladies, 
Morton,” said Maurice after a long si- 
lence, suddenly looking up from his 
paper. 

‘‘Not at all,” returned Morton. 

‘‘Take some more burgundy. I am 
nothing of a host : I do not realize that 
Frank is away, and that I am even nom- 
inally at the head of his house.” 

‘‘Nothing more, thank you.” 

Maurice threw down his paper in front 
of him, and folding his arms upon it, 
looked fixedly at Morton. ‘‘What is it 
Shakespeare says ?” he exclaimed abrupt- 
ly : “‘ Every inordinate cup is unblessed, 
and the ingredient is a devil.’ ” 

“ I don’t remember the precise words,” 
said Morton savagely. Then rising he 
added, ‘‘Most of us know the truth of it 
from experience more or less bitter.” 

Maurice too sprang up, and put his 
hand on the other’s shoulder. “ Morton,” 
he said with a commanding glance, ‘‘as 
gentleman to gentleman I have no right 
to say what I wish to say to you, but at 
times conventionalities are insignificant. 
We forget them when we see another 
human being in danger. As man to man 
I speak to you.” 

Morton may have quailed inwardly, 
but he did not flinch. ‘‘Say on,” he re- 
turned : “ I am listening.” 

“ I do not know what hope is at the 
bottom of your interest in my cousin, but 


I assure you that any man who puts him- 
self in her power is at the mercy of a 
dangerous coquette.” 

Morton was pale as death. “ Did Miss 
Meredith empower you to speak in this 
manner to me ?” he asked in a low voice. 

“ No : we have not spoken of you. I 
had thought of warning her of the con- 
sequences of her actions, but not in ref- 
erence to yourself. In this matter my 
solicitude is for an honorable man in the 
meshes of an entanglement little less 
than disgraceful — who is sure to awaken 
presently from an ardent dream to the 
knowledge that all that he supposed a 
warm, living, breathing reality is a cold 
deception.” Morton had turned away, 
and remained obstinately silent. ‘‘The 
world is full of women,” pursued Mau- 
rice, still in an inflexible voice, ‘‘to say 
nothing of the" waste of feeling which 
devotion to the one you cannot marry 
implies : why not seek one who has a 
heart to give you, instead of one whose 
weary soul has long led her into a crav- 
ing for excitement — for amusement at 
any cost to others. She can light fires 
which she can traverse in safety. I do 
not like to say this, but you command 
my esteem in other respects, and I should 
like to see you extricate yourself from a 
position which does you no credit. My 
cousin is engaged to Leslie Wilmot.” 

‘‘Suppose,” said Morton with a half 
laugh, ‘‘that I denied that she held to 
her engagement to him.” i 

“ I should say she had fooled you : 
that is all. I am not apt to intermeddle 
in other men’s matters, but remember 
that Miss Meredith is under the roof of 
your friend, who for the time being is her 
guardian, and that her family sanction 
nothing in her conduct which interferes 
with her engagement to Wilmot. I have 
done : now we will join the ladies.” 

Morton looked proud and indifferent, 
and stood rooted to the spot as if plunged 
in thought. 

“ I hope,” said Maurice in a kind voice, 
“that I have not angered you. Had I 
not a sincere interest in you, my words, 
harsh as they have been, would have 
been harsher.” 

“ I am not angry,” returned Morton : 


74 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


“ I have not enough self-respect left to be 
angry.” He still stood as if he had for- 
gotten where he was, and as if he had 
lost the power of action. Maurice again 
suggested that they should join the ladies, 
as coffee was to be served in the parlor. 

“No,” said Morton, his memory re- 
turning, “I will not go in. Tell them, 
if you please, that I leave Saintford early 
to-morrow morning for a few days. Make 
my excuses : I am not well. I will not 
tax their forbearance longer this even- 
ing.” 

Meanwhile, the ladies had passed on 
to the parlor. Mrs. Meredith took up a 
novel, Felise went to the piano, and Vio- 
let stood at the window and looked out. 
Rain had set in since afternoon, shadows 
of night were fast settling down, while 
mists, driven by the east wind, stalked 
in funeral fashion over the grounds. 
Moralists have always had a favorite 
theme in the unsatisfyingness of human 
lives. From Bossuet, with his ‘‘On trouve 
au fond de tout le vide et le neant,” 
down to the simplest writer, the idea is 
repeated with endless and hopeless itera- 
tion. Often as it is declared aloud, how 
much oftener does this conviction sit like 
a spectre in our hearts and brood over 
our lives ! As Violet looked at the gray- 
shrouded earth and listened to the mel- 
ancholy strains which Felise played fit- 
fully, she felt weary and hopeless. The 
past was hideous, the present tantalizing, 
the future worthless. She was angry with 
herself for her outbreak to her cousin, yet 
said within her heart, What harm had it 
done save to show her more clearly than 
before the fact of his utter indifference to 
her regard ? She had been drifting of late 
into an intimate intercourse with Morton, 
which had not been without its enjoyment 
for her. Now she was asking herself 
why it would not be better for her to give 
up Wilmot, who was nothing to her, for 
Morton, who at least had the merit of a 
tried devotion, a heart to be absorbed in 
her, a mind capable of interesting her. 
She was weary to-night : the world was 
nothing, comfort and peace much. She 
had willed something onc£, but against 
her weak woman’s resolution had inter- 
posed an insuperable obstacle, and her 


will had snapped : she knew at last all 
her wishes to be futile. She was more 
of a woman in her defeat than she would 
have been in her success. Her demands 
upon life were less arrogant than they 
had been yesterday : she was disposed 
to content herself with half enjoyments 
— to be trustful and dependent. In fact, 
she was in a mood to promise immeas- 
urable fidelity to-night to a man who 
loved her, and who had been, and would 
continue to be, true to her. 

Luigi came in while she still stood 
staring into the gray twilight, and light- 
ed the candles in their sconces and the 
great globe lamps in the chandeliers. 
Then he closed the shutters and drew 
the curtains, and Violet returned to 
realities. 

‘‘Is it night?” yawned Mrs. Meredith, 
who had fallen asleep. ‘‘I wish Frank 
were here : it is terribly dull without him, 
is it not, Felise? He is always doing 
something nice for one : Maurice is a 
bear in comparison.” 

“ Maurice a bear !” exclaimed Violet. 
“ Upon my word, mamma, you have no 
taste ! — Do you not admire my cousin 
Maurice’s manners, Felise?” 

Felise stopped playing and looked at 
Violet with her frank yet subtle smile. 
‘‘He is very distinguished,” she answer- 
ed softly. 44 He does grand things in a 
simple manner, but if he picks up one’s 
handkerchief he does it in a grand man- 
ner.” 

44 Frank’s manners are better,” insisted 
Mrs. Meredith. ‘‘He does everything 
simply — nothing seems difficult for him. 
He is always an immense favorite in 
society. I remember Lady Macdonald 
once asked me to take him when I visit- 
ed at her place in Scotland. ‘ Do bring 
him,’ she wrote, 4 for Frank Layton has 
the knack of making everything go off 
well, from a ball to a powwow.’ ” 

44 Bless me, mamma ! What praise 
from Lady Mac! But what is a pow- 
wow ?” 

44 1 don’t quite remember, my dear, but 
I think it is another name for the Ameri- 
can Congress.” 

Maurice came in with Morton’s excuses, 
which Violet received with a heightened 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


color and an air of vexation. But coffee 
was served, and while they drank it Mau- 
rice told his aunt that he must go to Sara- 
toga next day, and proposed that she and 
Violet should accompany him . The poli- 
ticians were there in force, and he was 
sent for, and his aunt and cousin could 
be amused for a week, and be back in 
time for Frank’s and Wilmot’s return 
from Newport. Violet was delighted with 
the prospect of a week’s change and ex- 
citement, and Mrs. Meredith, with an air 
of self-sacrifice, sent for her maid at once 
and bade her begin packing their boxes. 

Felise felt a little dreary : for some rea- 
son she seemed all at once to be quite 
alone in the world. The others were 
talking incessantly. Maurice had heard 
from Miss Clifford, who h^d been to the 
mountains, but was now in Newport again, 
and it had occurred to him that Frank 
would not be backward in inviting her 
to return with him to Saintford. Secre- 
tary Clifford was at Saratoga for a day 
or two on his way back to Washington : 
in short, Maurice’s horizon, which of late 
had seemed no larger than Felise’s, sud- 
denly embraced a whole world of impe- 
rious interests and widely-diverging en- 
ergies. Her heart sank : what was she, 
after all, to these people ? If Frank were 
here, she would not be outside of every- 
body’s hopes and interests. Her lip 
quivered, and she turned to the piano 
and began playing softly to herself. 

“ Sing me something, Miss Clairmont,” 
Maqrice said suddenly, leaning down to 
her — “ sing me something sad and sweet.” 
Felise sang something very bright and 
gay on the contrary, then repented and 
gave him a pathetic old ballad. “ Go 
on,” said he when she stopped. “ I want 
to hear 4 Allan Percy ’ and ‘ Auld Robin 
Gray ’ and 4 Kathleen Mavourneen.’ ” 

She obeyed him meekly enough : she 
was suffering to-night, without having yet 
defined the reason, and all her passion of 
pain and longing found expression in her 
voice. Maurice leaned back in his chair 
listening, and looking at her through his 
half-closed eyelids, and a shimmer of 
magnetic light there showed that he 
heard her not altogether unmoved. 

‘‘Don’t sing any more of those dreary 


75 

ballads,” cried Violet finally : “sing 4 Er- 
nani involami.’ ” 

But Felise declared she was tired and 
could “Sing no more, and began playing 
one of Strauss’s waltzes. Violet held out 
her arms to her cousin, and he sprang 
up and they moved away to the luxurious 
strain. Felise was in a reverie, and did 
not at first see that they were dancing, 
but she soon turned sharply. “ Does Mr. 
Layton waltz ?” she asked suddenly. 

“ Is that so very surprising ?” demand- 
ed Violet, laughing. “Maurice waltzes, 
but rarely. When he does, Heaven help 
the other men ! The woman with whom 
he waltzes once will never waltz again 
without a sigh for him.” 

“No, I don’t waltz now-a-days, Miss 
Clairmont,” said Maurice. “The days 
when I considered dancing the highest 
employment of enlightened beings were 
over before I was twenty. But I confess 
I love waltzing still, particularly with Vio- 
let, who is the best dancer in the world.” 
^Felise could not withdraw her eyes 
from the two. Ttlaurice’s arm was still 
around Violet’s slender waist, and her 
face, vivid with color and lit with pleas- 
ure, was raised to his. 

‘NDon’t flatter me,” said she. “ I know 
very well how little you care about your 
tiresome, passee old cousin.” 

He stooped his head and kissed her. 
Felise shivered at the sight of the caress, 
and if they had observed the expression 
of her eyes at that moment, they would 
have been startled at their melancholy 
fire. She turned pale, then rosy red, 
and, wheeling on her music-stool, con- 
tinued the waltz from the bar where she 
had broken off. 

“Aunt Agnes,” remarked Maurice de- 
murely, “ I kissed Violet, and have shock- 
ed Miss Clairmont. Tell her, please, that 
my cousin is the only sister I have in the 
world, and that she was so irresistibly 
handsome and her face so near me that 
I thought it as well to make the most of 
my privileges.” 

But Mrs. Meredith was watching Fe- 
lise with the keen glance of a woman 
whose suspicions are suddenly aroused. 
“We forgive you,” she observed care- 
lessly. “But, Maurice, I will only for- 


7 6 


OVE IN IDLENESS. 


give you on consideration that you sing 
me some of the songs you used to sing 
to us at home — those you sang as a boy 
to poor Louise.” 

‘‘Yes, I will sing,” cried Maurice. ‘‘I 
feel inspired to sing to-night. Has Frank 
sung to you, Miss Clairmont?” 

‘‘No,” returned Felise, without raising 
her eyes : “ I did not know that he could 
sing.” 

‘‘Frank can do everything,” returned 
Violet. 44 But he has a horror of being 
called a musical man. Yet his voice has 
been compared to Mario’s.” 

But Maurice was looking at Felise. 
‘‘What is the matter with you ?” he ask- 
ed her with concern. ‘‘Did I tire you 
making you sing so long?” 

She disclaimed all possibility of fatigue, 
and said she was only chilly, yet while 
Maurice was wrapping her in a shawl her 
cheeks all at once blazed with color. 44 1 
will get you a glass of wine,” said he, 
staring at her, but she was absurdly shy 
and distant, blushing furiously all the 
time, and begged him to sing and not 
look at her any more. 

He sat down to the piano and struck 
the chords with a firm hand. 44 Remem- 
ber,” said he, ‘‘it is almost twenty-five 
years since I used to sing to my mother : 
I have never learned a song since. The 
modern quality of my music will not be 
its fault.” 

He sang ‘‘Believe me if all those en- 
dearing young charms,” and Mrs. Mer- 
edith did not once remove her eyes from 
Felise while she listened. 

‘‘She loves him,” she was saying to 
herself — ‘‘she loves him.” 

Maurice turned to Felise when he 
closed. 44 That was my mother’s favorite 
scng,” said he: ‘‘my father had sung it 
to her in her youth.” 


Violet saved her the necessity of speak- 
ing. 44 No man could love like that,” she 
observed. ‘‘Yet that is the love a wo- 
man needs to make her happy.” 

‘‘Oh yes,” cried Maurice, smiling as 
he looked at Felise’s downcast eyes, 
‘‘many men could love like that.” 

‘‘Love has its day,” pursued Violet, 
‘‘but then how soon a day passes! A 
man’s love goes through many stages, 
but it finally reaches disenchantment, let 
Moore write pretty verses as he may.” 

‘‘Now, Miss Clairmont,” said Maurice, 
“ I will sing you my favorite song. There 
are just two love-songs in the world — this 
and ‘ Che faro senza Euridice ?’ ” 

He sang the Adelaide. His was no 
elaborately trained or technically perfect 
voice, but it was mellow, thrilling and 
full : then, in whatever he undertook, 
expression was easy to him, and, a natu- 
ral singer as he was a natural orator, he 
could move the feelings of his listeners 
at his will. To-night he was in a mood 
of exaltation beyond himself, and some 
inward thought or inspiration made him 
glad of a chance to spend his soul in 
music. 

‘‘Adelaide!” The strain pealed forth 
with all the passion of his nature in its 
tone. ‘‘Adelaide!” It passed beyond 
mere melody, and became a revelation 
of passion and of pain. 

Mrs. Meredith crept up to him and put 
her hand on his shoulder. ‘‘Maurice,” 
she whispered, ‘‘never dare to love any- 
body like that.” 

He moved her from him gently, rose 
and closed the piano. 

44 Sing one more song,” pleaded Violet. 

‘‘It is my last song,” said he wearily. 
44 Song belongs to youth : I shall never 
sing again.” 


i 


PART IV. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

M ORTON was absent two days, then 
returned, and was overwhelmed 
with surprise to find the cottage empty 
of its summer inmates. Mechanically, 
he went to call upon Miss Clairmont, 
whom he found practicing new music 
indefatigably. “ This is a change,” said 
he : ‘‘I had no idea the Merediths were 
going away.” 

‘‘They will return next week.” 

Morton questioned Felise a little more, 
then sat down and begged her to go on 
with her music. The quiet room remind- 
ed him of the days of early summer when 
he first came to Saintford : then the tran- 
quil air of the place had seemed to him 
just what he needed of calm and peace- 
ful influence to set him to work at his 
novel and to put him at his best. All 
his surroundings had been propitious : 
even his old love of poetry and romance 
returned, and the old magic, the old 
dreams of his more hopeful days, work- 
ed within him. He had felt sure that if 
he had genius it was to yield its results 
now. Little enough had he done : he 
had lived in a tumult of wild thoughts 
and wishes. Quickly all the fairy-land 
of blissful romance had vanished from 
his fancy, and instead of sitting down 
quietly to write out what he felt and 
thought, he had been devoured by rest- 
lessness, an insatiable desire to drown 
thought, reason and all higher truth with 
wave after wave of excitement. He had 
gone away from Saintford recently sick 
in body and soul : he had come back ir- 
resolute. He was both bound to Violet 
and separated from her by a gulf which 
of late had seemed to grow wider and 
wider. It was almost a relief to discover 
that she was no longer within easy reach 
of him : he was not yet obliged to make 
up his mind as to his future course toward 
her. 

So he sat listening to Felise while she 
practiced. The influences of the room* 
quieted and almost cheered him. It was 


full of fresh flowers, and through the 
open lace curtains he could see glimpses 
of sunlight and waving shadow without : 
here Felise’s dainty elegance seemed to 
have impressed everything. Morton 
was not used to domestic women, and 
the sight of the young girl’s workbox 
full of little gold implements, lying by 
a pile of narrow laces with which 
she had been trimming frills, stirred a 
feeling of vague pleasure. One could 
find peace in loving this young girl. Her 
interest in life was fresh and sweet : she 
had no weariness, no ennui to combat 
the moment she was alone and excite- 
ment failed her. He looked at her well 
as she sat at the piano, and tried to think 
what she was in the minds of the men 
who had already loved her, and decided 
that the thought of her to them must be 
like a perfume, a melody, a ray of light 
— any emblem of a beauty which comes 
from the purest source of beauty. 

Loving Violet Meredith was quite an- 
other sort of passion. Morton in all his 
life had loved but one woman. With 
most men it is with love as with the re- 
ligions of the world — the active faith of 
one age is but the poetry and tradition 
of the next : in love the early transport 
is but a romantic memory to the older 
man, over which he is half cynic, half 
sentimentalist. But with Morton early 
love was still paramount : no weaker 
deities had displaced the god, and the 
remembrance even of this love for a girl 
of such affluent beauty and such brilliant 
caprices, both of mind and manner, made 
other women appear dull and lacking 
fascination. They might be beautiful, 
and their love might have infinite power 
to bless ; yet all they could give seemed 
less than for Violet to fling him a swift 
glance, to allow him to touch her hand. 
In loving Violet there could be no weari- 
ness — none of the sweet satiety which is 
the sure accompaniment of love for a 
lesser woman. Life was worth living 
merely to have loved her: to lose the 

77 


78 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


world for such a woman would be giving 
dross for gold. So Morton had loved 
since he was twenty-four ; and what had 
in youth been untried fervor was now 
changed into that demon of existence, 
an absorbing passion in middle life. 

But Maurice’s words and looks had 
stirred honest shame in Morton, and he 
cursed the infatuation which bound him 
in such degrading bondage that he could 
not look men in the face. In his short 
absence he had thought over everything 
Violet had said which he might count as 
a guarantee of her faith to him. What 
he wanted from her was a promise to 
become his wife. She had listened to 
his arguments again and again. She 
was away from England now : let her 
mother return home alone, while she 
stayed in this new country with her hus- 
band. She had not once said no, but 
she had never said yes. He had come 
back with the resolution of forcing a de- 
terminate answer : finding her gone, and 
with the words of Maurice still ringing in 
his ears, any ultimate happiness from his 
acquaintance with her became gradually, 
as the days went by, an impossible chi- 
mera. In moments now when he called 
himself absolutely sane he held his in- 
fatuation for her cheap, since he found 
that in the presence of a very different 
girl he experienced an exquisite relief 
from all his doubts and dilemmas. 

He saw Felise constantly now, for the 
Saintford circle seemed narrow enough, 
and although he visited frequently at 
Mrs. Dury’s, there was an empressement 
in the manner of the widow which at 
times, although he was a modest man, 
dismayed him. But Felise and Mrs. 
Knight were delightful : the young girl 
opened up fresh vistas of imagination. 
Close upon thirty-six as he was, he had 
never before met a woman who com- 
pletely pleased and amused him, beguil- 
ing the time without giving him intense 
shocks of feeling. To be with Violet 
and look at her superb beauty, meet her 
imperial glance, see her cross the room 
even, was to enjoy a rich banquet of 
sensation. The charm of Felise to Mor- 
ton was like the delight one feels iivcom- 
ing upon a mountain-brook, in bending 


over the beauty of a delicate woodland 
flower. She had the most powerful charm 
of youth : she could hold out bewilder- 
ing allurements of pleasure, yet in his 
feeling for her could lurk no poison : he 
need not bear about with him the curse 
and the presence of a damnable doubt. 

As for Felise, we may well believe 
that she thought little or nothing about 
Morton. Saintford was dull at present, 
and it was pleasant to have some one to 
entertain. Intellectually, they were sym- 
pathetic enough to find topics of talk 
without limit, but they did not always 
talk. Felise sang to him, as she had 
never sung yet even to the Laytons, 
song after song as one suggested an- 
other. Again, she would amuse herself 
by going through entire operas, filling 
out at times the thin piano sketch of 
orchestral accompaniment with a clever 
word of description. Morton had plenty 
of imagination which her music would 
arouse. These were pleasant days to 
him. Her grace and sweetness put his 
agitation to sleep : he was almost a boy 
again, lying on flowery meadows and 
watching peaceful clouds and tranquil 
sunshine. Felise was one person, then 
another, as she sang : Zerlina tripping 
across the fields, sad Norma, terrible Lu- 
crezia, wavering, timid Lucia, or the love- 
ly Linda. Sometimes higher strains than 
these, moved by earthly love or hate, ten- 
derness or longing, jealousy or despair, 
would rise, and the flower-decked room 
would seem to swell into a lofty cathedral 
as she played and sang old masses : Mor- 
ton could close his eyes and see lighted 
altars, swinging censers, stately pillared 
vistas, fretted arches, many-hued colors 
of the sunset gleaming through great 
rose -windows, while the melody, tran- 
substantiated into strains of heavenly 
sweetness, soared above the white light 
of the myriad stars, a song of praise be- 
fore the Eternal Throne. 

One afternoon Mrs. Knight and Felise 
had given Morton the third seat in the 
pony carriage to go to the beach. They 
sat on the sands and watched the waves 
come in : an east wind was blowing and 
the tranquil Sound was tempest-tossed 
to-day. Above, floated great tremulous 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


79 


white clouds, taking terrible shapes at 
times even in their fleecy beauty. Mor- 
ton had been silent for a time, but 
suddenly exclaimed, “ Do you ever read 
Heine, Miss Clairmont? Do you re- 
member this? — 

By the sea, by the desert night-covered sea, 
Standeth a youth. 

His breast full of sadness, his head full of doubtings. 
And with gloomy lips he asks of the billows, 

* Oh, answer me life’s hidden riddle — 

The riddle primeval and painful — 

Over which many a head has been poring — 

Heads in hieroglyphical night-caps — 

Heads in turbans and swarthy bonnets — 

Heads in perukes, and a thousand others. 

Poor and perspiring heads of us mortals — 

Tell me what signifies man? 

Whence doth he come ? and where doth he go ? 

Who dwelleth among the golden stars yonder?’ 

The billows are murmuring their murmur eternal. 
The wind is blowing, the clouds are flying. 

The stars are twinkling all listless and cold, 

And a fool is awaiting his answer.” 

Morton looked at Felise and smiled bit- 
terly as he concluded. “But no such 
questions haunt you,” he said. 

“I have been very unhappy some- 
times,” she replied. “But I take my 
trouble elsewhere than to the angry, tur- 
bulent sea. There are many questions 
which in this life we ask in vain, but the 
end of knowledge is not here.” 

These words were to produce an inef- 
faceable impression upon Morton. Felise 
was possessed as yet of too little self-con- 
sciousness to be very religious, but she 
possessed in a rare degree purity of feel- 
ing and an absolute faith that a benefi- 
cent God loves his human children. She 
might truthfully have said — 

A l’enfant il faut sa mere, 

A mon ame il faut mon Dieu. 

Morton lay awake all night thinking of 
the white soul which illumined her face 
while she spoke. 

On the following morning Luigi came 
up from the cottage with the intelligence 
that Senator Layton and the Merediths 
were to return that evening, and Morton 
also brought the same news a little later. 
He found Felise in the garden making 
bouquets to send to the cottage, and she 
was hanging over the roses, heliotropes 
and lilies with lingering touches which 
seemed like caresses. Morton sat down 
on a bench and watched her : he was 


haggard and pale, and seemed depress- 
ed. “You are glad they are coming 
back ?” he observed to Felise, noticing a 
new light in her eyes. 

“Oh yes*, I am very glad; but,” she 
added turning to him kindly, “ you have 
made this week very pleasant.” 

“Is Frank Layton returning to-day?” 
he asked. 

“No: they are still at Newport, and 
will not set out until the wind changes.” 

“ Do you hear from him ?” 

“Yes,” returned Felise simply: “he 
writes every day.” 

Morton started up and stood beside 
her. “ Tell me something,” said he hur- 
riedly. “ I have no right to ask, yet am 
anxious to know : are you engaged to 
Frank Layton?” 

“ No,” returned Felise, raising her eyes 
quite unabashed. “ But he is an intimate 
friend here, and he likes to have us know 
what he is doing.” 

Morton’s face expressed relief, but he 
said no more until she had finished the 
bouquets : then he begged her to sit with 
him under the trees near the fountain 
for a few moments. “ I have something 
very particular to say to you,” he added 
with an averted glance. 

Felise laughed at the formality of his 
request, but the stiff silence he maintain- 
ed as they walked across the grass and 
the look of his face embarrassed her. 
He was very pale, but a spot of vivid 
color burned on each cheek, and his eyes 
were over-brilliant. She sat down and 
hurriedly pulled off her gloves and ner- 
vously clasped her hands together in her 
lap. 

He turned toward her with a resolute 
smile. “ Miss Clairmont,” said he softly, 
“ will you marry me ?” 

She uttered some inarticulate murmur, 
and half rose from her seat. Without 
his touching her, the motion of his hand 
compelled her to sit down again. 

“Surely,” he exclaimed, “you are not 
angry with me. Has not a man the right 
to ask the woman he loves to marry 
him ?” 

“ But you do not love me, Mr. Morton.” 

He gazed at her intently as she sat 
I leaning against the trunk of a tree, the 


8o 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


green leaves making a charming setting 
for the exquisite girl-face, flushed and half 
averted now. Morton was not altogether 
in love yet : he was no stoic, and felt her 
beauty deeply. “Do not say I do not 
love you,” he said with a sort of quiver 
in his voice, “for I do love you dearly. I 
should be happy to be that flower in your 
hand, that leaf that touches your cheek.” 
But she forbade the utterance of such 
folly by a single look and gesture. “ Do 
I offend you,” he asked hoarsely, “be- 
( ause you fancy my heart is in the pos- 
session of another woman ? l * 

She blushed deeply and bowed her 
head. He started up abruptly, striding 
before her again and again. Finally 
pausing, he said, “ She is a woman who 
only has power to do me harm : you can 
save me. If you once put your hand in 
mine, promise to be my wife, I will nev- 
er think of her again.” Felise would 
have spoken, but he went on hastily, with 
a sort of restrained fervor in his manner 
which made his words appear the inad- 
equate expression of an overburdened 
soul : “ I know that a woman has a right 
to claim the undivided affections of the 
man she marries. By Heaven, mine shall 
be yours ! The memory of that other has 
lost all power over me. I will make you 
happy, Miss Clairmont. I am neither 
poor nor obscure. You shall have no 
common fate if you will marry me.” 

He had not finished, but Felise stop- 
ped him with a gesture, and looked at 
him with a womanly air which showed 
that her temporary dismay was over and 
that she had quite regained her forces. 
“Mr. Morton,” she said with a peculiar 
smile, “your pleading is all very pretty, 
but let me speak for a moment : you have 
silenced me long enough. We may al- 
ways be friends, but it is quite impossible 
that we should be anything more.” 

His face showed intense humiliation or 
disappointment. “You will not marry me, 
then ?” he cried in a tone of despair. 

“No, Mr. Morton.” 

“And why not ? Miss Clairmont, I tell 
you that the happiness of my life depends 
upon you.” 

She regarded him with astonishment. 
“Why, Mr. Morton,” she exclaimed, 


“ when did you first think of doing me 
the honor of asking this question ?” 

“Don’t question me too closely,” said 
he, “but do not doubt my motives.” He 
spoke with such vehemence that she look- 
ed at him wonderingly : her eyes filled 
with tears at his tone, and they overflow- 
ed and ran down her cheeks. “ I have 
alarmed you,” he went on more quietly. 
“ Let me tell you about myself. A year 
ago I had renounced all hope of person- 
al enjoyment. I had ambitions to spur 
my energies, but my aspirations for hap- 
piness held nothing in common with them. 
I had decided that love was not for me : 
once I had tried to win the joys of other 
men, but I had made a miserable failure 
of my attempt. Now, all the current of 
my thoughts has changed. I long for 
quiet assured joys — something more 
tender than intellectual victories — some- 
thing I need to rest on — something dear- 
er, nobler than I have yet attained, or I 
am lost. Now, Miss Clairmont” — and 
by a terrible effort he forced his haggard 
features into a smile — “my love for you 
could ennoble my old ambitions, and with 
you for my wife the highest tasks which 
my career imposes would be easy for 
me.” 

Felise trembled as she listened. Had 
he held the power over her which some 
men exercise without inspiring love, his 
words would have revealed to her a com- 
mand, and the inherent love of sacrifice 
which lies in the souls of all good women 
might have given her strength to obey it. 
As it was, his vehemence repelled her : 
he seemed an egotist, and women, the 
victims of egotists, abhor egotism. 

“ It seems to me,” she returned doubt- 
fully, “ that to your mind marriage is not 
a very grave affair. Since you are so 
ready to love somebody, why not repay 
some woman who loves you ?” She half 
smiled as she met his eyes. 

He sighed. “ I suppose,” said he, un- 
derstanding her allusion, “ that in making 
you an offer I am too presumptuous. I 
might have known that yours is, for me 
at least, 

Beauty too rich for use — for earth too dear. 

Still, Miss Clairmont, it is a pleasure even 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


8 1 




to be refused by you for his passionate 
mood had passed at the conviction of her 
indifference, and he at once put the graver 
significance of their talk behind him and 
determined to make her forget it. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Maurice’s trip to Saratoga with the 
Merediths was a successful one. The 
watering-place was crowded with his 
friends, and life for the ladies had been 
a brilliant and continuous fete, while he, 
on his part, held long talks about the 
country and the country’s work, which 
rested of course on the shoulders of this 
coterie of statesmen and politicians who 
balanced expediencies and discussed their 
resources. Maurice was a favorite among 
his party : comparatively young, thor- 
oughly in earnest, and possessing, be- 
sides high capacity, individual qualities 
both commanding and endearing, his 
seniors in office were devoted to him, 
for his enthusiasm was still fresh, and 
he had not yet felt the weariness of the 
everlasting battle, the perpetually-recur- 
ring experience of wasted energies and 
baffled hopes. Accordingly, his popu- 
larity, both political and social, had en- 
sured his aunt and cousin a pleasant 
prominence at Saratoga, and they had 
thoroughly enjoyed their week, and re- 
turned in high spirits. 

Morton renewed his old habits of in- 
timacy at once, and paid his respects to 
the ladies the morning after their arrival 
at eleven o’clock. In spite of the late- 
ness of the hour, they were still at break- 
fast, while Maurice amiably kept them 
company, sitting at a distant window read- 
ing newspapers. Violet greeted Morton 
with great cordiality, and at once began 
giving him a spirited account of their 
visit : she had met all the noted Amer- 
icans, she affirmed, and their attentions 
had turned her head. Then they had 
come upon some English friends who 
had also been spending time in the 
States, and she had found plenty of 
opportunities for enjoyment. She mim- 
icked the oddities she had met, laughed 
at the women and the young girls, re- 
6 


peated some clever man’s bonmots and 
some idiot’s absurdities, all with the ob- 
ject of amusing Morton, who would not 
smile, but continued to regard her with a 
fastidious air as he leaned over a chair 
and waited for her to finish her tea. 
When at last she became silent he turn- 
ed to Mrs. Meredith. “And you, dear 
madam,’’ said he, ignoring Violet, “I 
hope you had an agreeable time?’’ 

“ Oh yes : speaking by formula, I had 
an agreeable time. But I am an old wo- 
man, and neither Englishmen nor Amer- 
icans are sufficiently spirituel to make 
love to an old woman. The next time 
I go into mourning and have a little lei- 
sure, I intend to write a book and call 
it The Decline and Fall of a Woman's 
Empire. Life contains no such elements 
of pathos as lie in the fact that a woman 
who has been beautiful and young reaches 
an age when her beauty and her youth are 
but a memory or a tradition — when she 
must be a looker-on where she has been 
chief actor. Alas ! I am so bored in so- 
ciety sometimes!” 

“I suppose,” observed Morton, “that 
you will soon be leaving Saintford, Mrs. 
Meredith ? When do you expect to re- 
turn home ?” 

“We start on our journey to Niagara 
and Canada about the twenty-fifth,” she 
returned, “and count on sailing for Liv- 
erpool some three weeks later.” 

“How large a traveling-party are you ?” 

“Frank and ourselves and Miss Clair- 
mont make up the party.” 

“ Mr. Wilmot does not go with you ?” 

“No,” observed Mrs. Meredith languid- 
ly, but with some considerable meaning 
in her drawl. “ Dear Leslie has some 
particular arrangements to complete in 
England before we return. He will sail 
in a fortnight now. — I shall have few 
more journeys with you, dear child,” 
she added to Violet. — “Maurice, I wish 
you could go with us to Niagara.” 

“Thanks !” returned Maurice from be- 
hind his paper. “You will be better sat- 
isfied with Frank. — Morton, if you are 
ever so unlucky as to go about with wo- 
men, you will be struck by the fact that 
they ask conundrums about everything 
they see. This last week it was always, 


82 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


4 Maurice, why is it that So-and-So does 
so-and-so?’ A tremendous drain upon 
one’s faculties! — Now, Frank, my dear 
aunt, will be just in his element travel- 
ing about with you, for he has spent his 
life revolving abstract questions among 
highly-cultivated beings, while I have 
been working among trivialities with the 
masses. You will never miss me, Aunt 
Agnes.” 

44 It may seem very droll, but I rarely 
miss anybody. Just think, Maurice, how 
adorable Frank will be with Felise in the 
party ! He will be nicer than if it were 
his honeymoon : nothing will be too much 
for him to do for us all. I intend to im- 
prove my chances, for I shall never enjoy 
such golden opportunities again. — By the 
way, Mr. Morton, when are you going 
* home ?” 

44 1 cannot tell. I have, as yet, no dis- 
position to revisit the fogs of my native 
land.” 

44 Tell us the news, Morton,” said Mau- 
rice. ‘‘You went away before us: how 
long did you stay ?'’ 

‘‘Two or three days only.” 

‘‘How did you amuse yourself in our 
absence ?” demanded Mrs. Meredith. ‘‘I 
always feel so sorry for the place I have 
gone away from : I cannot help believing 
it to be a yawning void, sunless, rayless, 
spiritless. Did you write at your novel 
or did you make love ?” 

“ I did not touch my novel.” 

‘‘To whom did you make love — to Miss 
Clairmont or to Mrs. Dury ?” 

“ I did not make love to Mrs. Dury : 
one never knows what one may do when 
a widow is concerned. Accordingly, I 
devoted myself to Miss Clairmont.” 

All three laughed. 

‘‘Allow me to suggest,” said Mrs. Mer- 
edith, ‘‘that one never knows what one 
may do when Miss Clairmont is con- 
cerned. I suspect you fell in love with 
her.” 

Morton looked grave and a trifle dis- 
concerted. 

‘‘Confess, now,” cried Mrs. Meredith, 
‘‘that you fell in love with Felise Clair- 
mont.” 

Something in the glance which Violet 
flung at him decided Morton to commit 


himself at once. It pleased him that 
she should hear that he too was free to 
amuse himself in the way most pleasant 
to him. “ I am like every one else,” 
said he with some bitterness in his voice. 
“ Since you press the matter, I can only 
tell you that I went very much farther 
than was discreet for me, and that I 
am just now, Miss Clairmont’s rejected 
suitor.” 

44 1 do not believe it,” exclaimed Violet, 
the color leaping to her face. 

‘‘I should be the happiest of men if 
she had accepted me,” rejoined Morton 
in his quietest way. “ But it is really the 
case that I offered myself to that young 
lady twenty-four hours ago, and was re- 
fused.” 

A dead silence fell over the little party. 
Violet had grown white and rigid even 
to the lips, but her eyes blazed ; Maurice 
looked impassive ; while Mrs. Meredith 
was convulsed with suppressed laughter. 
Maurice threw down his papers present- 
ly and strode into the garden, and his 
aunt ran after him and caught his arm. 
It was a warm, sunny day after a night 
of light showers : a few white clouds still 
floated across the blue, but did not ap- 
proach the sun, which shone brilliant- 
ly. The grass was still wet and aglow 
with gold and emerald gleams, the birds 
twittered joyously, and the refreshed flow- 
ers sent out rich perfumes. Mrs. Mer- 
edith’s lawn skirts trailed a yard behind 
her as she walked along the garden-path, 
almost 'on tiptoe to rest her arm inside 
her nephew’s. 44 Is not that droll ?” she 
whispered, covering her face with a trifle 
of cambric and laughing immoderately. 
‘‘Felise has stolen one of Violet’s lovers 
at last ! I wish her joy of him !” 

44 She did not care to keep him,” fumed 
Maurice, angry that aspiring love should 
profane the goddess. 44 1 call it no less 
than d d impertinence for him to pa- 

rade his presumption before us.” 

44 He had an object in doing so : he 
wants to show Violet that he is not so 
much her slave as he has seemed.” 

44 1 told him,” cried Maurice, ‘‘to go 
pay his addresses to some woman who 
was free to receive them, but I did not 
think that his aspirations were so high.” 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


83 


14 High ? He has been in love with 
Violet all his life : no wonder he thought 
he could throw his handkerchief in any 
direction he chose. I only wish he had 
offered to Mrs. Dury instead : Violet 
would not have been half so angry, and 
the widow has a real fondness for him, 
and would have accepted him.” 

‘‘Aunt Agnes, it has been hard for 
me to understand why you have allowed 
Violet to encourage him and madden 
him by her coquettish tricks.” 

4 Bah ! She must have some one in 
love with her. It is her only amusement 
in life.” 

“ On my soul,” exclaimed Maurice, un- 
reasonably angry, 44 1 think men and wo- 
men are fools !” 

‘‘I never doubted that,” said Mrs. 
Meredith, growing suddenly grave. She 
looked into her nephew’s face timidly, 
then played with a rose she put in his 
buttonhole. 44 Maurice,” she began pres- 
ently, with an effort at heroism, 44 1 want 
to speak to you of a danger you are run- 
ning yourself.” 

Maurice started, and Mrs. Meredith 
was conscious of an angry gleam in his 
eyes. He continued to look at her with 
an expectant glance. 44 Go on,” said he 
in a sarcastic voice. 

44 1 wish to speak about — about Miss 
Clairmont,” faltered Mrs. Meredith. But 
Maurice’s face grew so black she lost her 
courage. 44 You shall not look at me like 
that,” she cried. 44 1 tell you, you shall 
not ! I am your aunt, and I will not be 
frightened out of life by my own nephew. 
Now, Maurice, smile — give me your 
hand.” 

44 Please to go on. I have no intention 
of murdering you, say what you may,” 
rejoined Maurice coldly. 44 You evident- 
ly approach the subject with so much ter- 
ror that my mind is busy about the prob- 
abilities of your real meaning. You wish 
to speak about — Miss Clairmont.” 

“ Maurice, I cannot be silent, although 
I dislike to say what I am about to tell 
you. You ought to be aware by this time 
that you were born not alone to govern 
men, but to please women. Frank is 
dearer to me than even my own chil- 
dren * he has been a comfort to me 


when they were cruel and ungrateful. 
He is so good I want him to be happy.” 

44 God knows, so do I !” cried Maurice 
in an agitated voice. 44 What do you 
mean ?” 

44 He loves Felise with all his heart. 
Maurice, let him have her : do not come 
between them.” 

Maurice had turned frightfully pale : 
he was powerfully moved, yet his terror 
was vague and indefinite. 44 1 come be- 
tween them?” he repeated blankly. 44 1 
want him to marry her. I would tear my 
heart out before I would wrong Frank.” 

44 Yes, yes, yes,” said Mrs. Meredith 
soothingly. ‘‘Nobody suspects you of 
caring for her. It is no weakness of 
yours to be interested in women. The 
danger is quite the other way, for, Mau- 
rice, she loves you.” 

44 Loves me !” he exclaimed mechanic- 
ally. 44 Felise loves me! Impossible!” 
and he laughed. 

44 Hush ! It is too heartless to laugh. 
I am certain that she loves you.” 

Maurice’s heart beat hurriedly : he felt 
a wild sense of joy, but turned his face 
away from his aunt’s eyes. 44 Give me 
your reasons for speaking.” said he in a 
hoarse voice. 

44 1 would not tell a different man, 
but with you I am certain there is no 
miserable vanity that such a story will 
gratify.” 

44 1 hope not — God knows, I hope not !” 

Mrs. Meredith told him about their last 
evening together, when Felise had shiv- 
ered and turned pale at the kiss he gave 
Violet — of her look and expression when 
he was singing. 

‘‘Perhaps,” she pursued after a little 
pause of waiting for him to speak — “per- 
haps Felise has not yet defined her feel- 
ing for you even to herself. I only wish 
to put you on your guard : that is all. 
Rosamond will soon be here, and Felise 
will naturally understand the position of 
all parties. Then she will turn to Frank : 
she likes him — I am sure of that ; but you 
— you have pleased her in a different way. 
Cannot you yourself recall a hundred in- 
nocent little follies which betrayed her 
fondness for you ? I implore you, Mau- 
rice, break this off. Be indifferent, pre- 


8 4 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


occupied, anything to estrange her from 
you.” 

Maurice lifted his aunt’s hand and kiss- 
ed it. “ I am not sure whether you have 
done well in telling me this,” said he 
gently, ‘‘but I thank you for your good 
intentions toward Frank at least, dear 
little woman ! I must go in, for I was 
about to write to Rosamond that I hope, 
if she finds Leslie’s yacht comfortable, 
she will agree to Frank’s proposal and 
return with him.” 

He spoke in just his ordinary way, and 
let Mrs. Meredith study his face as she 
might she could read no expression there 
save an imperative command for her to 
be silent, which she obeyed without any 
clear ideas as to what feelings might be 
going on beneath his impassive exterior. 
He went to his room and wrote a note to 
Rosamond, and a long and more than 
usually affectionate letter to Frank : then, 
desiring nothing so much as to be outside 
the house and free from observation, he 
walked to the post-office and mailed them 
himself, returning to his brother’s place 
by another road. He entered a gate at 
the foot of the grounds, and at once 
strode toward a thicket of willows, where, 
among the cool shadows, he flung him- 
self with violence on the grass and re- 
peatedly pressed his forehead to the 
damp earth. 

Plenty of intoxications assail a man in 
a wide career. Maurice had kept his 
head through strong temptations, yet 
something in his aunt’s words this morn- 
ing seemed quite to have turned his brain. 
‘‘She loves you” sounded in his ears in 
endless iteration. No words to which he 
had listened in all his life had ever been 
so sweet, but then, too, no words had ever 
been so maddening, dangerous. Besides 
this present enlightenment, the past all at 
once came back to his mind, freshly re- 
newing itself with clear interpretation. 
PTom the moment he had first seen Fe- 
lise stand with her hand — oh, that deli- 
cious hand ! — caressing her uncle’s cheek 
he had loved her. There was no doubt 
now about, the feeling she inspired in him. 
Time and time again through these pleas- 
ant summer days she had put a subtle fever 
in his blood. Y et against all her winsome- 


ness he had worn armor. He loved his 
brother, and rejoiced that he should be 
the husband of the fairest woman he 
had ever seen : he himself had decided 
to seek in marriage other elements of 
happiness than love, but Frank’s life 
must be different. It must be blessed 
with such tenderness as Felise, and Fe- 
lise alone, could give. But these had 
been his thoughts yesterday. To-day, 
against this new conviction that she 
loved himself, Maurice could school his 
heart by no philosophy. Not once before 
since his boyhood had any such fever ab- 
sorbed him to the exclusion of the main 
objects of his existence. When, finally, 
his senses returned to him, he was still 
lying under the willows. He looked at 
his watch: it was half- past four. He 
sprang up. ‘‘I suppose,” he said to 
himself audibly, ‘‘that most men are 
fools sooner or later. But perhaps no 
man was ever before such a fool as I 
have been for the last four hours. Not 
content with being a fool, I must needs 
play the villain too.” 

He loathed himself. He took pleas- 
ure in calling himself names, and in 
trampling on his hitherto assured belief 
in his powers of self-command. In fact, 
nothing could have been more high- 
minded than his soliloquies, and, put in 
words and declaimed in a touching voice 
with eloquent delivery and appropriate 
gesticulation, they would have had a 
powerful effect upon any audience, and 
have thoroughly convinced his listeners 
of his earnestness. Yet perhaps while 
even Hamlet and Cato were uttering their 
impassioned monologues, some few less- 
er thoughts revealed themselves to their 
inward consciousness which they did not 
cry aloud for fear of dwarfing the gran- 
deur of their speeches. Certain it is, at 
least, that for ordinary mortals it is very 
hard to be absolutely in earnest. What 
our mind wills is not always obeyed by 
our actions ; and in any crisis of our 
lives we find ourselves, after scrupulous- 
ly weighing alternations and deciding on 
the most immaculately high-toned con- 
duct, still favoring other pleas than those 
urged by sternness and painful duty. It 
is not so easy to banish claims of heart 


LOVE IN IDLENESS . 


85 


and sense when they solicit us so pow- 
erfully, whisper so beseechingly. When 
they can promise all that makes life dear 
to us, and when their fatally sweet voice 
is heard nearer and closer than others, 
we are indeed strong if we can silence it 
as a delirious fever-fantasy. 

Maurice had no wish to come under 
the scrutiny of eyes enlightened by long 
experience of his accustomed moods, and 
rejoiced that he had accepted an invita- 
tion to a public banquet in the neigh- 
boring city in honor of some celebrated 
stranger. Any one who knew him well 
to-night would have observed a positive 
change in his complexion, and the in- 
tense brilliance of his eyes declared that 
some effective magic had been at work 
and lent to his face all the glow and fire 
of youth. He spoke after supper, and 
genuine inspiration was in his words : 
he always possessed in the highest de- 
gree the gift that is called eloquence; yet 
it was natural for him to repress it, as 
he desired above all reputations to gain 
that of a practical man, and dreaded the 
dangers of an ornate or rhetorical style ; 
but to-night high thoughts and enchant- 
ing images were aglow before his mind, 
and his language rose to poetry. It was 
not enough for him, as usual, to sketch 
his subject in large, bold outlines, and 
define his views with exactness and ac- 
curacy, but he must invest it with a pow- 
erful magic that kindled and stirred his 
hearers into enthusiasm. 

He drove back to Saintford at eleven 
o’clock. The moon was up, but a great 
dusty cloud like a gigantic winged bird 
hung poised below it, so that the silver 
light did but little to illumine the night. 
Strong gusts of wind occasionally sway- 
ed the sombre masses of trees on either 
hand, and at times low thunder muttered 
from the west, and occasional lightnings 
played as the storm rose and lulled over 
the distant hills. Maurice was at fever- 
heat still, but it was rather the elation 
of sudden freedom from the shackles of 
habit and routine than from hope or ex- 
pectation. No one can thoroughly esti- 
mate the forces within him until he is 
thrilled by the deepest and best love of 
which his nature is capable ; and this new 


emotion which moved Maurice awoke 
with an electric touch the long-slumber- 
ing enthusiasm of his nature, which was 
the fresher, perhaps, that it had slept be- 
neath frost and shadows so many years. 
On reaching Frank’s cottage he learned 
that his aunt and cousin had not return- 
ed from a party at Mrs. Dury’s, and he 
at once directed his steps thither. 

Supper was just over when he reached 
the pretty parlors of the charming wid- 
ow, and she at once informed him that 
the cotillon was forming, and that she 
hoped he would find a partner for it. 
Maurice was inspired by her words with 
a sudden wish to dance. He carefully 
drew on fresh gloves, and after speak- 
ing to Mrs. Meredith and Violet, who 
were apparently in no need of his at- 
tentions, he went through the rooms 
looking for Miss Clairmont. He had 
not seen her for ten days, and it was 
but natural that he should wish to shake 
hands with her. He had wondered at 
intervals all day what he should say to 
her when he met her face to face. Now, 
at any rate, he would have small chance 
of saying anything more than one usual- 
ly says to one’s next neighbor in a crowd- 
ed room. He found her presently, still 
standing in an alcove of the dining-room, 
and his first question was whether he 
should give her some peaches. She de- 
clined fruit, however, and still stood tran- 
quilly listening to the chatter of three or 
four boys who were crowding around her. 
She was dressed in white and wore strings 
of pearls about her neck, and their mys- 
tical purity and the colorless dress may 
have rendered her more pale than usual. 
Maurice chose to see something strange 
yet indefinably lovely in the expression 
of her face : her lips only had a trace 
of color, and they were red as a scarlet 
flower, while her eyes were more intense 
than usual in their expression, although 
after one glance at him their lids swoop- 
ed down and hid them, so that he could 
only study their curled black lashes. But 
she was not a woman to look at and say 
tamely, “She loves me!” and Maurice 
shivered as from a magnetic shock, and 
even his finger-tips tingled, as finally slie 
looked up at him a second time. 


86 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


“ I am glad you have come back,” she 
said simply. ‘‘ I hope you had a pleas- 
ant time at Saratoga.” 

‘‘But I did not go for pleasure.” 

‘‘I hope, then, you have returned to 
Saintford for pleasure.” 

‘‘Ah !” he murmured with an insatiable 
glance, ‘‘that I do not know as yet. Will 
you dance the German with me?” 

The color came to her face, and her 
lips took the curves that a grieved child’s 
face shows. ‘‘Oh, I am so sorry!” she 
exclaimed with outspoken regret, ‘‘but I 
have been engaged for this cotillon for 
five days. I am so disappointed!” she 
went on, stinging him with her words, 
and smiling too in the most provokingly 
heart-whole manner, “ for I should have 
been so vain at having such a partner, 
and — ” 

Just here she was interrupted by an 
enchanting little salaam from a long- 
legged, moustached youth, who offered 
his arm in an assured way, blandly ig- 
noring the claims of anything so dull 
and elderly as Senator Layton. Felise 
threw him a little glance and smile as 
she walked toward the parlors, while he 
stood rooted to the spot. 

“ Can you not find a partner, Mr. Lay- 
ton ?” asked Mrs. Dury, approaching him. 

He smiled, or at least those facial 
muscles which usually manage a smile 
moved. “ Since you do not dance, Mrs. 
Dury,” he returned with an air of high 
ceremony, “will you not allow me to 
talk to you ?” 

The fair widow replied coquettishly, 
although she on her part was suffering 
disappointment, for Morton had gone 
behind the curtains of a bay - window 
with Miss Meredith and settled himself 
for a long tete-a-tete. Maurice brought 
an easy-chair, put his hostess into it, then 
leaned over it for three mortal hours un- 
til the German was finished. He did not 
once look at the dancers : the sight of 
Felise waltzing would have been abhor- 
rent to him. 


CHAPTER XV. 

Morton had no sooner betrayed his 
indiscretion of offering himself to Miss 


Clairmont in the hearing of Miss Mer- 
edith than he regretted it, for Violet’s 
manner at once assured him that he had 
lost ground with her, and that what he 
had lost was more than he had ever 
gained. She gave him one glance, then 
turned and left him, and in her look he 
saw a great deal — a thousand beautiful 
memories of their youth, together with 
its sweet and vivid hopes ; her years of 
restless disappointment, in which, as she 
had repeatedly told him, she had cared 
for nothing, settled to nothing ; his fidel- 
ity to her, from which she had argued the 
higher worth of his devotion than any 
love, no matter how ardent, of to-day. 
He experienced in one moment, while 
her scornful but tremulous glance feH 
upon him, the possibilities of happiness 
that his wavering fancies had imperiled : 
one flash of self - consciousness showed 
him how unworthy he had been com- 
pared with his lofty ideal of a lover, and 
he sprang after her and begged her for a 
moment to listen to him, but she neither 
looked at him nor spoke, and the hours 
that followed seemed his first experience 
of irremediably dreary days. 

Violet meanwhile bore with meagre 
indications of pain what was in truth a 
bitter mortification and disappointment 
to her. But she was a woman of the 
world, and expected less of men and 
women than an enthusiast. She had 
seen little of heroism, yet she had be- 
lieved for a time in Morton, and yielded 
faith to his professions that he had loved 
her all these years for love’s sake — that 
with scant hope of recompense he had 
accepted his hopeless passion for its val- 
ue to himself and its power to give shape 
and meaning to his life, apart from any 
circumstances which could make its con- 
sequences a source of real happiness to 
him. But now she felt that to retain any 
semblance of belief in him after such a 
deception she must be insensible to rea- 
son and doomed to illusion. Above all, 
she hated to feel that she was a dupe : 
that she had once credited his profes- 
sions made her despise herself. 

Felise came in to pass the morning 
with her, and she found her friend in a 
peculiar mood : she was full of levity, of 


LOVE IN 

frolicsome mirth, but her elation resem- 
bled that of a cat who plays with her 
mouse before she tears it to pieces. Fe- 
lise listened to her gravely, puzzled and 
ill at ease, for beneath all these outbursts 
of wit she discovered some strong motive 
of sadness, and in the little delicate shafts 
of satire aimed at herself she felt a sting 
at her own heart. She expostulated final- 
ly with Violet, who kissed her. “ I kiss 
the beautiful lips,” said she, ‘‘for which 
so many are starving. I know a long 
list of your lovers, Felise, quite by heart. 
So it appears you have another?” 

Felise flushed, and tears of vexation 
stood in her eyes. ‘‘Oh,” she cried, ‘‘is 
it that which makes you so cruel to-day, 
Violet ? Who told you ?” 

‘‘Who but himself?” returned Violet 
laughing. “He implored our compas- 
sion. I forget his words, but he tbld us 
something like this — that he was the 
most miserable of men.” She flung 
herself on the floor beside the young 
girl and looked up into her face. “Why 
did you not take him, Felise ?” she asked 
lightly. “To be sure, I want you to mar- 
ry Frank, but Mr. Morton is an old friend 
of mine, and I grudge him no happiness. 
He is a man worthy of a woman’s inter- 
est — clever, sensitive, manly — pre-emi- 
nently masculine, indeed, for he is so 
fickle.” 

“ He is not so fickle as he may seem,” 
returned Felise with a little nod. “Be- 
sides, Violet,” she went on, “ aren’t you a 
little apt not to reward fidelity ? You talk 
of constancy, yet you are the first to de- 
spise a man for being constant. Since 
you know so much, I will tell you more 
about Mr. Morton. His profession of 
admiration for me was not inspired by 
anything that gave it an appearance of 
a real wish that I should take him at his 
word. Were I vain enough to make a 
list of my lovers, I should never put him 
among them. I understand his motive in 
speaking to me. He knows that you are 
engaged — that it is not — not precisely 
honorable for him to confess himself in 
love with you ; and so, suddenly, abrupt- 
ly, he resolved to do something which 
should carry him off his present footing 
of uncertainty, and he — ” She grew 


IDLENESS. 87 

scarlet at the end of her speech, and 
stopped short. 

“ So he asked you to marry him ?” said 
Violet dryly. “Say that he was in a 
quicksand which threatened to swallow 
him up, where did his abrupt leap take 
him to ? Apparently, if he counted on 
hard ground at your feet, your answer 
made even that foothold crumble be- 
neath him.” 

“ I always fail in metaphor,” Felise re- 
joined laughing. “But between us we 
have made out his present position to 
be precarious. I hope you intend to do 
something for him.” 

“What could I do for him ?” 

“You can, it seems to me, do some- 
thing for yourself,” returned Felise, ca- 
ressing the beautiful head which lay 
across her lap. “Everybody sees that 
both he and Mr. Wilmot love you dearly. 
You cannot marry them both, Violet.” 

Violet seemed irrepressibly amused. 
“My dear little girl,” said she, starting 
up and regaining her equanimity, “ you 
are so deliciously unconscious of yout 
own position. You don’t find it neces- 
sary to marry all the men in love with 
you. You are the poorest preacher in 
the world. Except that I have an in- 
tense curiosity to see what you are final- 
ly going to do with yourself, I would 
preach a sermon to you.” 

Felise looked at her with wide won- 
dering eyes, then colored and looked 
very haughty. “I do not understand 
you,” she said. “Mr. Morton was noth- 
ing to me — nothing.” 

“ Oh, I was not alluding to him, child. 
Let him rest. What is he to me ? I am 
engaged to marry Leslie Wilmot — poor, 
stupid, foolish Leslie ! Who knows but 
that he is offering himself to some girl 
at Newport at this moment ? I was born 
unlucky : I can keep nothing. The 
fashion of this world soon changes with 
me.” 

Luigi brought in tea, and Violet sip- 
ped hers with the utmost composure of 
soul : it was not very strong, but she de- 
cided that henceforth she would have 
no emotions stronger in effect than the 
weakest tea. Merton dropped in with 
an apologetic air t > bi ing a message from 


88 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


Mrs. Dury, and little Bel Dury was cling- 
ing to his hand. Men are subject at 
times to crueler mortifications than wo- 
men can ever experience, and his feel- 
ings on encountering the glances of Miss 
Meredith and Felise, and reading in each 
an accusation, were as worthy of a veil 
as those of Agamemnon. 

“ Mrs. Dury begged me to come and 
ask you not to forget her invitation sent 
here in your absence,” he said, looking 
at Miss Meredith. 

“ How good of Mrs. Dury and of you !” 
answered Violet. ‘‘We found the note, 
and I think we shall have the pleasure 
of attending Mrs. Dury’s little party. 
Sit down, Mr. Morton, and have some 
tea. — Felise, did you give Mr. Morton tea 
at all hours of the day, as we do here ?” 

“ No,” replied Felise : ‘‘we do not drink 
tea so often. I dare say Mr. Morton 
missed it.” 

‘‘Oh no,” said Violet. ‘‘Men do not 
care for tea : it is only we women who 
require something to stimulate, divert 
and amuse us. Men have a wider ocean 
of excitement to drown their cares in 
than our little teapots afford. — You have 
so many resources, Mr. Morton! You 
have little Bel, too. — Bel, do you like 
this gentleman ?” 

‘‘Yes,” replied Bel: ‘‘I love him very 
much.” 

‘‘She has not yet grown up,” remark- 
ed Morton with a smile : ‘‘by and by she 
will be too wise either to have the senti- 
ment or to avow it.” 

He had made an effort to rise to the 
requirements of his position, and now 
sat tranquilly with the child on his lap, 
feeding her with lumps of sugar from 
the dish among the tea-service beside 
him on the table. 

“ I had never thought,” observed 
Violet, ‘‘how adaptable you are, Mr. 
Morton — so well calculated for peaceful 
domestic life by the fireside between a 
wife and child. — Is Mr. Morton good to 
you, little Bel ?” 

“ Pretty good,” returned Bel. “ Some- 
times when I want to have him come in 
he goes up the hill to see that lady ;” and 
she pointed at Felise, whose eyes met 
Morton’s with frank amusement. ‘‘But 


he came this morning,” the child con- 
tinued, “and he helped mamma pick 
flowers for the party.” 

“ Mr. Morton is very good,” said Violet 
gravely. “He believes in complete im- 
partiality. I dare say, hereafter, little 
Bel, you will see him a great deal.” 

“ He is coming to our party to-night,” 
cried Bel. “And I am to sit up until 
supper-time. Mr. Morton says he will 
dance with me. I have got a white dress 
and blue ribbons, and Jane is going to 
curl my hair with a stick, and I shall 
look very nice. — You will dance with me, 
won’t you, Mr. Morton ?” 

Mr. Morton made his promise, and 
took his leave with the child still holding 
his hand. He was silent and grave, and 
something in his stern face awed the little 
girl. When he was about to leave her 
in her mother’s garden she clung to him 
tenderly, and as he stooped put up her 
little rosebud mouth and kissed him. He 
had had few caresses in his life, and 
those he had won stirred too strange 
meanings at his heart to give him peace. 
He had a shyness in these matters, like 
other childless men, and had never kiss- 
ed little Bel before. Something in her 
artless fondness touched him deeply. 

“Why do you cry?” she asked him, 
staring at his eyes. 

“ Do I cry ?” he exclaimed. “ It is be- 
cause you are very good to me, my little 
one.” 

Morton had been deeply anxious to 
know if Violet Were going to this party, 
and for that reason had willingly under- 
taken to be Mrs. Dury’s messenger ; for, 
unless he could meet her there, he had 
determined that he must make some 
other opportunity of speaking with her. 
He watched for her to enter the house 
that evening, and at once followed, and, 
after speaking to his hostess, passed on 
to Miss Meredith, who was arrayed to- 
night not only in rare beauty, but in a 
manner of intolerable pride and indiffer- 
ence. Her dark eyes sought* his com- 
posedly, and she listened to him with 
languor ; but he was not to be repulsed, 
and would not be shaken off. Violet 
had gained for herself plenty of general 
admirers among Mrs. Dury’s coterie, but 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


89 


to-night not one of them could win her 
attention. She declined dancing, and 
sat in an easy-chair looking mostly into 
her bouquet, and when any one except 
Morton addressed her upon any subject 
which promised to need many words, she 
yawned a most delicious yawn shaded 
by her bouquet or the feathers of her 
fan, but still too unmistakably a yawn 
for any one to see it twice and linger 
too near her. 

“I think,” she remarked quietly to 
Morton as the evening advanced, ‘‘that 
as soon as supper is over I shall go 
home.” 

‘‘Suppose,” said he, meeting her eyes, 
“ you have a little talk with me instead ?” 

She looked at him, scarcely seeming 
to see him : her eyes said nothing, but 
something in her whole pose of head 
and shoulders seemed to express scorn. 
‘‘What do you wish to say to me ?” she 
asked. 

‘‘All that you will let me say,” he re- 
torted with a bow. ‘‘It seems you do 
not yet understand me.” 

‘‘Very well,” she said, her eyebrows 
knitting slightly and her nostrils dilating. 
“ It is a misfortune to be un homme in - 
comftris." 

When Morton came out of the bay- 
window that evening after his long talk 
with Violet he seemed wrought up to 
an extraordinary pitch of nervous ex- 
citement. His face was unusually pale 
and his eyes burned like coals. Violet, 
on the contrary, was more sleepy and 
tranquil than ever. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Maurice had told himself repeated- 
ly yesterday that of all calamities which 
could have happened to him none would 
be greater than that he should have gain- 
ed the love of a young girl like Felise, 
since love was a passion apart from his 
life. But this morning, the day after the 
party at Mrs. Dury’s, he was in a less 
settled frame of mind. In fact, Miss 
Clairmont’s manner to him the night be- 
fore had been so far from inducing any 
belief in his mind that he was more to 


her than another, that he experienced a 
sort of bitterness like that of defeat after 
exalted hope. Did she care for him or 
not? He could fix his attention upon 
nothing which did not tend toward the 
solution of this problem. Let the an- 
swer turn which way it might, it was a 
most unnecessary piece of knowledge for 
Miss Clifford’s future husband, yet he 
wrestled with the enigma as if he held 
some vital interest in its elucidation. 
Since in any case he must renounce all 
thought of Felise, as they could not marry 
without ruining others’ hop^s and others’ 
lives, it would sweeten and ennoble re- 
nunciation to know that she had once 
loved him. Sad enough would be the 
fate of the man who was obliged to sac- 
rifice the priceless treasure of such ten- 
derness, and to take up with inferior joys 
and a monotonous existence void of per- 
sonal happiness; but the certainty that 
he had once been loved, even let the 
love be unconfessed in words, might after 
a time become a consolation, even as the 
remembered caresses of our beloved dead 
are the consolation of our meagre after- 
lives. 

Thus dwelling on the subject, he felt 
his whole nature imperiously demand 
that he should searcn and know if Fe- 
lise cared for him. His quick temper- 
ament and absolute decision of mind 
had always mastered his perplexities be- 
fore, and he rebelled impatiently against 
the oppressive circumstances and irksome 
conventionalities which seemed now to 
deny him the exercise of his usual pow- 
ers. By eleven o’clock in the morning he 
had decided that bare justice to himself 
required that he should settle the ques- 
tion. Surely, a man not only possessed 
of considerable social experience, but a 
clever lawyer besides, would encounter 
small difficulty in making the discovery 
whether or no a young girl whose emo- 
tions were always written on her face 
loved him. Afterward ? Bah ! Ques- 
tions settle themselves, and no one can 
predict results before he has convinced 
himself about causes. He must set out 
at once to call upon Felise, for Frank 
and Leslie Wilmot were on their way to 
Saintford, with Miss Clifford and her 


9 o 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


aunt and cousin on board the yacht : 
they might arrive at any hour past noon, 
and this was positively his last chance of 
seeing Miss Clairmont alone. Acting is 
so much easier than thinking when im- 
portant interests are at stake that most 
of the sorry dramas of our lives come 
from our pride in making an heroic de- 
cision to do something at once. 

On entering Mrs. Knight’s morning- 
room Maurice found Felise coiled up in 
a huge arm-chair drawn up before an 
open window, reading a novel. 

“ Don’t move,” said he before she had 
time even to speak. ‘‘You danced too 
much last night: you are worn-out to- 
day, and too languid to stir. What are 
you reading?” He drew a chair close 
beside her and stretched out his hand 
for her book : “ Oh, a love-story ?” 

‘‘Of course it is a love-story,” returned 
Felise, ‘‘and you cannot think how inter- 
esting it is. I am quite consumed with 
longing to know if somebody is in love 
with the heroine.” 

“ But you cannot find out for an hour 
or two yet. Of course he is in love with 
her, or the novel would never have been 
written. You may usually make up your 
mind that written romances turn out as 
you wish to have them.” 

‘‘Since you have a theory about them, 
you must have read a great many nov- 
els,” said Felise. 

‘‘Oh yes. Sometimes, when I am quite 
faint and wrought up with overwork, I take 
a week to rest, and read nothing else. You 
should see Mr. Clifford, Judge Herbert and 
myself at Oaklands now and then : we all 
lie on sofas in the study and devour sen- 
timental trash. Herbert has a fashion of 
howling when he comes to a catastrophe, 
and Clifford cries over love-passages and 
reads them aloud in a quavering voice. 
When the judge gets really excited, he 
kicks and throws his long legs into the 
air.” 

“ And when you are deeply moved — ?” 

“ I ? Oh, I weep unrestrainedly, you 
know. Last May I was at Oaklands a 
week with the two men. Rosamond and 
Mrs. Herbert had gone to New York on 
a shopping- excursion, and taken poor 
Bert with them. A rain-storm set in, 


and we rummaged out piles of paper- 
covered novels from the library closets, 
and set to work amusing ourselves. 
What days those were! A prolonged 
howl sounded from Judge Herbert, and 
his legs were so high in air that I pre- 
dicted an apoplectic attack. He was 
reading Jane Eyre. Clifford had got 
hold of David Copperfield , and scream- 
ed with laughter and wept by turns. One 
evening we went out to dinner, and when 
soup was taken away and the fish came 
on, the judge produced his novel from 
his pocket. ‘ I never eat fish,’ said he, 
‘and you won’t mind if I save time by 
getting on with my book a little ?’ Clif- 
ford shrieked with laughter. ‘ I say ditto 
to Mr. Burke,’ he cried as soon as he 
could speak : ‘ I wanted to read about 
Dora, poor little Dora;’ and he pro- 
duced his book. And those two old 
boys read their books through the entire 
meal, while I in my blase middle age ate 
my dinner sensibly.” 

He went on for a time, giving anec- 
dotes of his two old friends and brother- 
statesmen, and Felise listened with the 
rapt attention of a happy child. 

‘‘You make me garrulous,” he ex- 
claimed finally. ‘‘When I am with you 
I want to talk for ever.” 

“ Nothing would please me so much as 
listening to you for ever,” rejoined Fe- 
lise. She met his eyes, and grew scar- 
let. “ I am all alone to-day,” she went 
on, wondering at her sudden and over- 
whelming embarrassment beneath his 
glance. “Aunt and uncle went to town, 
and will not be at home until evening. I 
invited Violet to come up and lunch with 
me, but she sent back word that she was 
engaged for the entire morning.” 

“Invite me in her stead,” suggested 
Maurice. 

“Will you lunch with me, Mr. Layton ?” 

“ I rarely eat lunch, for I am a man tre- 
mendously fond of his dinner. But what 
have you to offer me ?” 

“Let me consider. There are two 
peaches apiece for us, and I will give 
you some Sauterne that my uncle likes. 
Then you shall have some wafer biscuits 
and some almond macaroons which I 
made myself.” 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


9 1 


“Great Heavens ! You make almond 
macaroons and wafer biscuits ! I shall 
certainly seize such an opportunity to test 
your powers of cooking. I will stay will- 
ingly, for no such repast as you describe 
will have any effect upon my appetite for 
dinner.” 

“Oh, there will be something substan- 
tial. You shall have a bird for the piece 
de resistance." 

“At what hour do you lunch ?” 

“Not until one o’clock : restrain your 
impatience.” 

“ It will seem like two children play- 
ing at keeping house : a most charming 
arrangement.” 

“ Rachel must wait on the table,” ob- 
served Felise saucily, “ or my aunt would 
scold me when she returns.” 

Felise had never appeared to Maurice 
so completely bewitching, at the same 
time that he had never seen her so calm 
and indifferent. 

“Cornel” said he to himself, “I am 
not getting on. I will master all indis- 
cretion. I will not, I dare not, think of 
loving her, but I must know if her 
heart is absolutely calm where I am 
concerned.” 

Somehow, a little silence had crept 
over them since last their eyes had met, 
then been suddenly averted. It was a 
pleasant silence, for they could hear the 
murmur of the summer wind in the trees 
(the same wind which was wafting Frank 
Chester and Miss Clifford toward Saint- 
ford), and even the buzzing of the bees 
in the beds of lilies outside. 

“When I am really married, settled 
and at housekeeping,” observed Mau- 
rice, leaning nearer to Felise and speak- 
ing in a peculiarly soft voice, “I fear 
there will be little or nothing of play 
about it, for having a house in Washing- 
ton brings heavy responsibilities in its 
train. So let me forget that a moment. 
You know you told me I might talk on 
for ever; so, for talk’s sake, imagine 
that I am married to a different sort of 
woman from Rosamond — that instead of 
living for the world, my wife — my young 
and beautiful wife — and I live only for 
one another.” 

Felise’s eyes had fallen at first beneath 


his glance, which was at once command- 
ing and caressing, but she rallied and 
raised them again resolutely, and now 
was looking at him, but with sober lines 
about her mouth and gradually-receding 
color. 

“This young, beautiful wife should be 
a woman much like — well, say much like 
you, child,” pursued Maurice, flushing 
deeply, but his look never swerving from 
the exquisite face full before him and at 
his mercy : “ she should not only look like 
you, but possess your varied clevernesses. 
She should make for me almond ma- 
caroons : in fact, I should be willing to 
dine on such unsubstantial food in that 
chateau d’Espagne where we would live. 

1 am the most active and energetic of 
men, but, Miss Clairmont, I swear to you 
that under those conditions — a face so 
fair to look into, hands so soft and white 
to clasp — I swear to you I could live on 
little besides love, and let the world go 
by.” 

His eyes gleamed, and his voice, though 
sunk to a whisper, was eloquent with ve- 
hement feeling. She had continued to 
meet his look as long as she could, but 
at last her eyelids drooped and her lips 
grew tremulous. 

“ But such a chateau d’Espagne is for 
a younger fellow than I,” he pursued re- 
lentlessly. “ So young, so lovely a crea- 
ture, could never care for the middle- 
aged man that I have grown to be. Could 
she, Miss Clairmont?” 

He paused for an answer, and when 
none came he repeated his question. Her 
lips opened once as if she would speak : 
she looked up, then turned abruptly away, 
and was perfectly mute. Maurice had met 
her eyes, and felt an intoxication more 
delicious than the madness roused by 
wine. A great surge of tenderness stir- 
red him from head to foot, and it need- 
ed all his self-command for him to re- 
strain himself from clasping her in his 
arms. He rose, absolutely giddy, and 
walked to the window, and just for the 
sake of breaking the appalling stillness, 
which was so full of temptation, he went 
on, speaking mechanically, as if trying 
to convince them both that their mo- 
mentary revelation through that mutual 


9 2 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


despairing gaze did not mark an epoch 
in the life of each : “ Did I tell you, Miss 
Clairmont, that my brother comes to- 
day ? I had a letter this morning, post- 
ed at Stonington, and they will reach 
here by five o’clock at latest. Frank 
and Wilmot have quite a party on board 
the Pansy. Miss Clifford is returning with 
them to make a week’s visit at the cot- 
tage, and her aunt is with her, and her 
cousin, an agreeable fellow whom you 
will be sure to like.” 

There was no response to this an- 
nouncement, and Maurice turned sharp- 
ly around. Felise had risen with the 
design of escaping from the room, but 
something so blinded her that she caught 
her dress in her chair, and the muslin, 
although it tore, still would not rend wide 
enough to leave her free. Maurice, com- 
ing back to her, saw that tears were run- 
ning down her face. She knew that 
he discovered her utter humiliation, and 
trembled violently while she crimsoned 
with shame. He murmured some inco- 
herent words, and tried to take her hand, 
but she repulsed him, and at last, quite 
worn out with her struggle, gave way 
utterly, and sinking to the floor buried 
her face in the cushions of her seat. His 
thoughts were not enviable, and he bent 
over, her with a perfect passion of re- 
morse. 

Look up for one moment,” he whis- 
pered. “ Child, child ! you are breaking 
my heart !” 

“ Please to go away,” she answered with- 
out stirring. “ I am so — so tired to-day. 
Please to go away.” 

“ Dear child, how can I ? I am too 
concerned for you. Until I know that 
you forgive me, I cannot go away with- 
out feeling that I must go and destroy 
myself.” 

She shivered from head to foot, but 
made a resolute effort and raised her 
head, and with admirable self-command 


said simply and with decision, “ I have 
nothing to forgive — nothing. It is you 
who must pardon my folly. I am sure 
you will be good, and will remember 
that I am quite young, and, compared 
with a great man like you, an absurd 
child.” 

She .rose to her feet, and their looks 
met : a sob burst from her, and she broke 
away from his glance hurriedly. 

‘‘Now, good-bye,” she said: ‘‘surely, 
you will go away and not refuse my re- 
quest ?” 

“ I will do anything you tell me to do, 
Felise,” he cried in a tone of despair. 
He turned to take his hat, when the bell 
rang and a servant passed along the hall 
to attend the door. His instinct was to 
screen her from observation, and he in- 
stantly closed the shutters, that the dark- 
ness might cover her tears. A note was 
brought in, and he advanced and re- 
ceived it, himself handing it to Felise. 

‘‘It is from Mrs. Meredith,” she said: 
then opening and glancing at it added, 
“ She invites me to dine with you all at 
the cottage to meet — ” 

Maurice’s eyes smarted as she broke 
down again. He pitied himself intense- 
ly, but more deeply still he pitied her. 
She seemed to him weak and forsaken 
unless he might take her in his arms and 
comfort her. 

“ — To meet Miss Clifford,” Felise went 
on after a miserable pause. “ Will you 
tell Mrs. Meredith that I will accept her 
invitation?” Then, after another great 
effort, she added, “It will be a great 
privilege for me, Mr. Layton, to meet 
Miss Clifford, of whom I have heard so 
much — your future wife.” 

He looked at her a moment more, 
then wrenched himself away from the 
fascination which bound his glance to 
her face, bowed, and was gone. 


JPJi-'&j'T' “V\ 


CHAPTER XVII. 

T HE Pansy made port by half-past 
four that afternoon, and twenty 
minutes later the party were all at the 
cottage. Mrs. Meredith was the only 
one to receive them, but when Luigi 
was showing Miss Clifford to her room 
Maurice issued from the study and met 
her in the corridor. 

“I took you by surprise, Maurice?” 
said she, looking in his face as he shook 
hands with her. 

“ No, I wrote you yesterday that I fully 
hoped you would accept Frank’s invita- 
tion. You could not have done better 
than to come. Did you have a good 
passage? Was the Sound smooth?” 

‘‘Like glass. I hope I am not sun- 
burned. I wore six thicknesses of barege 
over my face, in order not to greet you 
with a red nose. Maurice, here is Aunt 
Sarah.” 

“ Such a ridiculous way of getting to a 
place !” remarked Mrs. Anderson, who 
had apparently lent all her veils to her 
niece, as her own face was scarlet. “ I 
am seasick and sunburned, and tired to 
death. Don’t look at me, Mr. Layton, 
until I am dressed, and don’t detain me, 
for I want to lie down for half an hour 
before dinner and she gained the se- 
clusion of her own allotted apartment 
and closed the door, leaving Maurice 
and Rosamond quite alone in the hall. 
She moved toward him and kissed him 
calmly. 

‘‘You are not well, Maurice?” she 
said: ‘‘what ails you?” 

“ Nonsense, Rosamond ! I am perfect- 
ly well,” he rejoined with an air of an- 
noyance. 

‘‘Are you really glad to see me ?” she 
asked. ‘‘You look quite unlike yourself.” 

He put his arm about her and embraced 
her almost passionately. “ I ought to be 
glad to see you,” he exclaimed with 
vehemence. “ Rosamond, why are you 
not my wife ? I wish to God we had 
been married in June.” 


She laughed slightly, but stared at 
him, and thought in her heart he had 
never seemed so much in love. ‘‘Oh, 
we settled that subject,” she replied 
carelessly. “ Is this my room ? How 
pretty it is ! and Frank knew my caprice 
for blue. Now, Maurice, I shall shut the 
door on you ;” which she did according- 
ly, and when she was in her chamber 
said to herself repeatedly that she had 
never seen him behave so queerly. 

Violet was so obliging as to come down 
twenty minutes before dinner-time in re- 
sponse to the messages Leslie Wilmot 
sent up from the library, w r hich he trav- 
ersed while he waited some hundreds 
of times, trembling and flushing at every 
sound. When she finally appeared, she 
greeted him very kindly, but bade him 
beware of over -affectionate demonstra- 
tions, as she was en grande mise to meet 
the sublime Miss Clifford. Leslie was 
enraptured with his fiancee’s beauty, her 
toilette, and, above all, her easy good- 
nature. But she laughed at his ugliness, 
which was very pronounced, indeed, from 
the effects of his cruise, and he ran to a 
mirror and regarded his' crimson and bis- 
tre face, well freckled besides, with a rue- 
ful glance. 

‘‘But, after all,” he exclaimed, “I’m 
never good-looking. You like me all the 
same, don’t you, Pansy ?” 

‘‘Indeed I do. You’re not handsome 
or clever, Leslie, but, I give you my 
word, I like you extremely.” 

“And you love me a little too, dar- 
ling?” 

“Oh, love! I know nothing about 
love. Do you know what it means, this 
love people talk about ?” 

“ I know — I know,” cried Wilmot, and 
buried his face in her dress. She lifted 
his head and kissed him with the first 
real impulse of tenderness she had ever 
felt for him. He fell on his knees. “ Vio- 
let,” he said, “I want you to promise 
something.” 

“I will promise anything.” 


93 


94 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


“To marry me in October.” 

“ If you are so good as to wish it. No, 
no, I cannot have this crepe crushed. 
But let me tell you something, Leslie. 
In the past you may have doubted me 
sometimes : you may have said, ‘ After 
all, the girl who has promised to be my 
wife is possessed of beauty perhaps, but 
has neither tenderness, nor sweetness, 
nor charm but hereafter you can say, 
4 Whatever faults she has — and they are 
a thousand — she really cares for me, and 
is going to make me a good wife.’ No, 
no, Leslie !” and she held up a warning 
finger as he showed signs of impetuosity 
again. “I dare say,” she went on, “that 
I may give you a great deal of trouble — 
there are times when I shall hate my 
servitude, and perhaps cry out against 
my life, for I have an unbearable temper 
and pride, Leslie — but don’t despair of 
me. And if anybody says that I am 
going to marry you because you are rich 
— that I value the splendid home you can 
give me, and the jewels and the gay easy 
life — never believe it for a moment. It is 
not for your wealth I take you, Leslie, but 
because you seem to me so much more 
true and honest than other men. If I 
really loved anybody, I should be glad 
to marry him and live with him in a hut. 
I know the world, and am sick and weary 
of it all. I care little for its prizes — I am 
indifferent to its praise. I am going to 
marry you because you love me and 
believe in me. And as soon as I am at 
home again you shall choose your own 
time to take me. Now, Leslie, those 
laces !” 

“ D the laces !” said Leslie ; and he 

had his own way after all, but smoothed 
out flounces and ruffles afterward with an 
apologetic air. 

Frank Layton was unaffectedly glad 
to be at home again, and had run over 
his house and grounds with the glee of a 
boy, Luigi at his heels uttering the most 
gracious Italian compliments : “The flow- 
ers have not bloomed since the absence 
of the padrone, nor has the sun shone. 
The heavenly-faced signorina has looked 
pale and sad when she has asked the un- 
happy Luigi , 4 And when, Luigi, is the pa- 
ir one coming back ?’ ” 


Frank did not for a moment believe 
what his brown-skinned Neapolitan was 
saying, yet nevertheless it was all very 
pleasant. 

“ The mbst beautiful signorina is com- 
ing to dinner, and I have put her cover 
at your left hand, padrone, with the love- 
liest flowers about it.” 

“Coming to dinner?” shouted Frank 
— “Miss Clairmont coming to dinner? 
And it is already six o’clock, and I have 
not dressed !” 

He wasted no more time out of doors 
looking at his flowers, but went to his 
room at once. He discovered that a 
box of his best cigars, left by accident 
behind him on his table, was gone, and 
he instantly divined that Luigi had need- 
ed their strength and fragrance to sup- 
port him under his loneliness ; but he 
only laughed. So the absurd fellow 
had wreathed Miss Clairmont’s place 
with flowers ! Live Luigi ! He might 
have a fresh box of Havanas. 

Frank dressed rapidly, and was only a 
moment later than Miss Clairmont, and 
in fact they all had a half hour to wait 
before Miss Clifford descended from her 
room. Felise met him with angel sweet- 
ness : never had she seemed to him so 
beautiful and winning. There shone a 
deeper light than usual in her eyes, and 
a sort of tenderness brooded over her 
face. She usually dressed with girlish 
simplicity, but to-night, as if in some 
•way she wished to assure the world that 
she was not the child she sometimes 
seemed, she had assumed the dress of 
a stately woman. She wore blue, and 
over her shoulders showed the rare tex- 
ture of priceless lace, which was folded 
about her in some quaint and beautiful 
fashion and made a ruff about her throat. 
She looked years older than she had in the 
morning i n a blue-spotted white frock, with 
her hair on her shoulders. F rank decided 
at first that a certain indefinable change 
he remarked in her was due to her un- 
usually rich attire, but presently it was 
revealed to him that she had the touch- 
ing aspect to-night of Beatrice Cenci as 
Guido painted her. He suddenly stop- 
ped speaking, and bent a deep, atten- 
tive, longing look upon her. Why did 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


95 


she carry such languor in her eyes, the 
languor of the mood that follows tears ? 
She was glad enough to turn away from 
his over-wise glances, for she was quite 
conscious of being unlike herself, and, but ' 
for the dread of remaining at home to go 
over her weary thoughts, could not have 
forced herself to dress and go out into 
the world. 

Maurice understood her very well, even 
to the instinct which had led her to deck 
herself so bravely in her jewels and lace. 
He had decided that she must have no 
terror at meeting him, and accordingly 
he had watched for the carriage, and him- 
self assisted her to alight and brought her 
in. He possessed consummate tact when 
he chose to exercise it, and his easy yet 
ceremonious manner had tranquilized 
her at once. He had continued to stand 
near her while Frank told her of his plea- 
sure in coming home again, and the mo- 
ment he perceived that his brother’s at- 
tention was caught by the over-lustre of 
the eyes and the tense curves of her 
lips, he came up and introduced Jack 
Clifford and bespoke her good graces 
for him. 

Jack was Rosamond’s cousin, and 
nephew to Secretary Clifford, and his 
family explained the basis of his pur- 
suits by always saying, “ Poor Jack ! he 
has his own fortune to make : he is study- 
ing law in Washington.” He was, in 
fact, at the office of his senior in Wash- 
ington about three months in the year, 
but during that period the excessive de- 
mands of society upon his time and at- 
tention precluded the possibility of his 
wasting much of his valuable energy 
upon his law-books. He was the best 
of fellows, handsome and well dressed 
as an Englishman, yet possessing the 
vivacity and grace of a Frenchman, 
with a delightful way of making trifles 
diverting, while more serious matters 
were encountered by him in a spirit 
which induced one to believe he could 
do anything if he would. He was a per- 
fect dancer, sang pleasantly, could draw 
caricatures capitally, and act better than 
the most finished society - actor on the 
stage. Most men liked him, although 
they condemned his easy-going ways 


of achieving his purposes as d d im- 

pertinence, and pretended to laugh at his 
belief in himself, and to despise his ac- 
complishments. As for women, he was 
no stranger in any civilized city on the 
face of the earth, and was in the habit 
of saying there were few pretty women 
in the world whom he had not at least 
danced with. The moment that he had 
cast his eyes on Miss Clairmont he stared 
into Maurice’s face. 

“ By Jove !” he exclaimed under his 
breath, ‘‘who is she?” 

Maurice explained rather shortly. 

“Is she engaged to anybody ?” 

“No.” 

“ Anybody devoted to her ?” 

“Just watch and see.” 

“I thought she might be the object 
of your brother’s admiration : if not, he 
makes a great mistake, for she is simply 
irresistible. I think it highly probable 
she may care for him, too, for, on my 
life, he is the best fellow I know.” 

Maurice shrugged his shoulders. 

“I’m free to go in, then, am I ?” pur- 
sued Jack. 

“You don’t expect me to tell you. 
You’re always in such confounded spirits 
over your good luck, I don’t in the least 
mind seeing you reduced to despair.” 

“You evidently think I shall be badly 
singed. But, now, why should she not 
fancy me ?” 

“Just so — why should she not? * Th' 
knave is handsome, young, and hath ai 
those elements in him that folly and 
green minds look for.’ ” 

“Come on, then. Introduce me, and 
I’ll use my advantages.” 

But no sooner had Jack made his bow 
and prepared to utter some clever spark- 
ling little speech than Miss Clifford en- 
tered the room with her aunt, and dinner 
was announced. Felise’s eyes at once 
fastened upon Rosamond, and she had 
no interest in listening to Jack. Miss 
Clifford was tall, with a cold, rather 
austere face, very quiet manners, and, 
although not possessing any particular 
grace or perfection of form, was endow- 
ed with an air of finished elegance. She 
could be called neither handsome nor 
plain, but while she was speaking her 




LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


96 

face was pleasing and expressed high 
earnestness. She was the most colorless 
of blondes, and her hair was flaxen, but 
she wore it in an artistic arrangement of 
braids and curls, and it crowned her 
small head with an air of distinction. 
She was as elaborately dressed as mourn- 
ing would permit, in puffed black tissues 
and rosettings of ribbons : the corsage, cut 
square, disclosed a neck and bust of the 
whiteness of marble, and her sleeves fell 
back from the thin, pallid arms, which 
were clasped by innumerable black en- 
amel and pearl bracelets. When she was 
introduced to Miss Meredith she met her 
with much cordiality, but her manner to- 
ward Miss Clairmont was cold and indif- 
ferent in the extreme. 

Maurice. Miss Clifford. Morton. Mrs. Anderson. 


jg 



Clifford. Miss Meredith. Wilmot. Felise. 


If any one takes the trouble to look at 
the arrangement of the dinner-table, he 
will at once see that the question of pre- 
cedence between Miss Clifford and Miss 
Clairmont had been settled in favor of 
the latter. Frank was of course obliged 
to take out Mrs. Anderson, hence Mrs. 
Meredith had put Felise on the other 
side, in order to console him for the 
pangs of a fortnight’s absence. Miss 
Clifford possessed a hundred admirable 
qualities, but she had one weakness, and 
that was, that society became insufferable 
to her unless she took the first place. 
She had already heard extravagant praise 
of Felise from Maurice, who, particular- 
ly upon his first meeting her, did not 
spare encomiums ; thus, Rosamond was 
prepared to be critical, and happening 
to enter the parlor whjpn the young girl 
was for the moment a centre of attention, 
and perceiving that she was dressed not 
only superbly, but with consummate 
taste, she at once decided that Felise 
was a flirt ; and only this accidental dis- 
tribution of the dinner-guests was neces- 


sary to harden her prepossession against 
her into an absolute prejudice. 

“I hope,” said Miss Clairmont to Wil- 
mot as they sat down, ‘‘that you enjoyed 
Newport.” 

‘‘I had an awfully jolly time,” replied 
Leslie : “ I never met such nice people in 
my life. You can’t fancy what favorites 
we were in society.” 

“ I am glad you were so well treated,” 
said Felise. 

Leslie laughed his hearty, boyish laugh. 
‘‘The fact is,” he explained modestly, 
‘‘we were regularly run after. There 
were only a dozen fellows there who 
could be called by any stretch of cour- 
tesy marriageable, and hundreds of nice 
jolly girls. Wasn’t it a beastly shame? 
We were a sort of — what d’ye call it ? — 
gods coming out of a machine in behalf 
of the pretty creatures, who were tired 
of fossil beaux and small boys just sprout- 
ing moustaches. A rumor got about that 
one of us was engaged, and I used to say 
gravely when I was asked that if either 
of us were engaged, it must be Frank 
Layton, but that I didn’t believe he was. 
I don’t think, though, that the report in- 
jured his chances : there were six or 
eight, at least, with whom he was thick 
as thieves.” 

‘‘My dear boy,” said Frank, ‘‘hold 
your tongue and don’t slander me, or I 
shall tell Violet about finding you on the 
‘ Forty Steps ’ at midnight with a pretty 
ghost all in white with blue ribbons.” 

“ Do !” retorted Leslie with a grimace. 
‘‘Nothing would suit me better than a 
little jealousy on her part.” 

Mrs. Anderson was always in a state 
of rapture, and was now pouring her ad- 
miration of his house into Frank’s ears. 
She complimented him on everything — 
his furniture, his servants, his china, even 
his monogram on the silver. 

“ Such a pleasant dining-room !” she 
remarked, leaning back between the 
courses. ‘‘But you do not hang your 
family portraits here.” 

44 No : in fact, I have but two, and they 
are in my own rooms. Maurice has a 
few daubs at his house, but I suspect they 
are in the lumber-room.” 

‘‘I admire his taste,” said Leslie, who 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


97 


was in excellent spirits. “At home our 
dining-room is hung about with black 
canvases which never have daylight 
enough to discover their true colors, so 
one can see nothing but a pair of spectral 
eyes, a white ruff, or a woman’s shoulder 
peering out of the gloom. Our family 
ain’t the handsomest in the world, and 
it’s just as well that the pictures should 
not be restored. My pater sits over his 
wine, and when he has got pretty deep 
into his bottle he will say sometimes, 
* That’s my great-grandfather up there — 
one of the handsomest men of his day, 
with Marlborough all through his cam- 
paigns, and he killed as many men in 
duels as in battle. He married three 
wives, all court beauties and all under 
eighteen. And now he’s dead. And 
there’s my grandfather, who used to 
hobble about the terrace with a stick 
and sit in the sunshine on pleasant days : 
he was fond of me, and used to tip me 
when I went back to school. And now 
he’s dead. And there’s my father, who 
pestered me with rules and regulations 
while he was alive, until I felt sometimes 
that I hated him ; but nobody ever loved 
me half so well ; yet now he’s dead, and 
in a little while my portrait will go up 
there, and I shall be dead.’ I’ll never 
have such beastly reminders of our mor- 
tality in my dining-room. It’s like — 
What was it they used to have at Egyp- 
tian feasts, Pansy ?” 

“ I never had the honor of attending 
one,” returned Violet. “There are no 
Egyptians in society, that I know.” 

Mrs. Anderson cast up her eyes and 
sighed. ‘“In the midst of life remem- 
ber death,’ ” said she. 

“Yes,” observed Morton, who seemed 
to be addressed, since Frank was whis- 
pering to Felise, “for it is the only real 
promise of comfort we mortals possess.” 

“You do not really mean what you 
say?” cried Mrs. Anderson, who, like 
other persons that utter pious platitudes, 
held death in horror and shrank nervous- 
ly from the conviction that sooner or later 
handsome dresses and delicate viands 
and happy laughter would cease at the 
summons of something black and terrible. 

“Why not?” returned Morton; and 

7 


he amused himself by epitomizing hu- 
man careers. “We inherit from our 
parents weakness, cowardice and love 
of luxury : wisdom comes to us in the 
mere experience of living. The age of 
struggle is over, and we exist in an epoch 
of consummated work : nothing remains 
for us but cynical speculation upon what 
event will next come uppermost. Plea- 
sure does not satisfy us, and compels 
satiety, yet we shrink from emotion or 
pain : simple diversions make us smile, 
for the thought of them induces ennui. 
Poetry and art move us only to critic- 
ism : we grow to loathe books, because 
we already stagger beneath a weight of 
ideas and theories which hinder our ac- 
ceptance of belief in primitive unques- 
tionable facts. We cannot yield our- 
selves to love even when it conquers us, 
because we are torn in halves between 
slow judgment and headlong passion, 
and halt midway, until we doubt the 
reality of our intensest feelings. In fact, 
merely as the result of a high civilization, 
we are born without hope or faith, like 
fruit withered in the bud. Why, then, 
the slaves of such dreary materialism, 
should we not long for death ?” 

Mrs. Anderson listened attentively, and 
spoke highly afterward of Morton’s con- 
versational powers. He was in a pecu- 
liar state of mind at this time, and alter- 
nated between feverish joy in life and 
intense depression. He had fixed a 
limit to his uncertainty, and the neces- 
sity of such delay until Violet gave him 
her final answer was his apology for a 
cowardly dread of disappointment and 
a disguise for weakness. He had not told 
himself in so many words that he was at 
the crisis of his life, and that it would 
soon be determined whether the rest of 
his career was to correspond with the 
successful beginning ; but he frequently 
confessed within his heart that he want- 
ed yest : he had suffered much emotion, 
and, unless he could be entirely happy, 
summed up his need in one requirement 
— tranquillity. For years one impulse 
had goaded him on, rousing him from 
ease and sloth with a touch like that of 
red-hot iron : was he strong enough to 
endure his restless disappointment to 


9 8 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


the end, believing m the worth of one 
supreme feeling which was to claim no 
rewards ? He watched Violet and Wilmot 
at dinner, and saw that they had arrived 
at a mutual understanding, and that Les- 
lie at least felt some pleasurable elation. 
The thought of Violet’s listening first to 
one and then to another of her suitors 
made him smile to-night : at other times 
it filled him with terrible exasperation, 
and forced a cloud of concentrated rage 
across his calm vision and assured judg- 
ment. 

Meanwhile, as dinner progressed, pearls 
were strewn in vain before Miss Clifford, 
who chose to be a little out of humor. 
Maurice combated her whims with some 
effort at raillery, and when they left the 
table for the parlors he followed her with 
assiduous attentions, anxious to avert her 
mind from the others until she had 
wreaked upon himself some small fem- 
inine spite, which showed itself plainly 
enough to him both in face and manner. 

Felise did not linger in the rooms in 
Miss Clifford’s sight, but went at once to 
the balcony. They had sat long at din- 
ner, and the rose-flush had gone entirely 
from the western sky, but the moon shone 
brilliantly, and only the trees, where they 
gloomed together in long colonnades, held 
the shadows of the night. Frank and 
Clifford followed Felise, arriving at her 
side simultaneously by different win- 
dows, and exchanging a smile of ma- 
licious determination not to resign an 
inch of favorable position for any man 
alive. Accordingly, Frank seated him- 
self on the railing at her right, and Jack 
at her left. The latter murmured the 
pretty speeches he had left unsaid be- 
fore dinner, while Frank, who was be- 
yond uttering commonplaces to her, 
gazed at her profile, her charming pose 
of head above the laces which held her 
throat and face as the calyx holds the 
flower, the motions of the little hands, 
every dimple and vein of which he 
knew by heart, as she played with the 
flowers and fan in her lap. What joy to 
be at last at home again and to find her 
in his home ! 

“ I hope your idea in coming out here 
did not spring from any wish for solitude ?’ ’ 


Jack was saying. “ Such moonlight would 
be quite thrown away on one, Miss Clair- 
mont.” 

“ I will save Miss Clairmont from any 
of the miseries of solitude, Jack,” inter- 
posed Frank. ‘‘Moonlight was not in- 
tended for a crowd. You might better 
go and talk to somebody else : I sha’n’t 
stir until Miss Clairmont goes in.” 

“But you are host, Frank,” retorted 
Jack, “and really ought not to be too 
particular. I will divide your duties : go 
entertain the others, and I will take care 
of Miss Clairmont.” 

“I should like,” returned Felise in her 
sweet low voice, “to have both of you 
entertain me.” 

“My own fascinations are of the high- 
est order,” declared Jack, “ but they shine 
brightest in tete-a-tete.” 

“I assure you, Miss Clairmont,” put 
in Frank, “Clifford is not so tiresome a 
fellow as he may seem. If he were not 
here now, I would give you some pretty 
little hints about his modest virtues.” 

All three laughed together, and the 
light, happy - seeming laughter floated 
into the parlors. 

“So Jack, too, is out there with Miss 
Clairmont ?” remarked Miss Clifford to 
Maurice, who was sitting beside her on 
the sofa, trying in vain to make himself 
comfortable with a blue satin cushion 
which constantly slipped out of its prop- 
er place against his shoulders. “I wish 
you would go and call him in, Maurice.” 

“How grateful he would be ! Why 
on earth should I call him in ?” 

“Because I particularly object to his 
getting Miss Clairmont in love with him.” 

Maurice laughed : “ Relieve your mind 
on that score, Rosamond : there’s not the 
smallest danger.” 

“You men know little of Jack’s powers 
of captivation. When he tries to please 
every woman falls in love with him.” 

“ Lucky fellow !” 

“ Is she rich ?” 

“Who? Miss Clairmont? I have no 
idea. I suspect the contrary.” 

“She is very much over-dressed.” 

“ I know no woman in society who al- 
ways dresses with such absolutely perfect 
taste.” 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


99 


Rosamond reddened. “She is a young 
girl — not more than eighteen, is she ? Yet 
she is wearing a small fortune in lace. 
Positively, I should rarely venture on 
such extravagance myself, except at a 
state dinner, and this is not a party at 
all.” 

Maurice’s heart was so tender over the 
little girl’s assertion of her state and pride 
in that splendid dress ! “ Let her wear 

her pretty lace in peace,” said he. “She 
looks quaint and old-fashioned, like some 
wonderful painting by an old master.” 

“Positively, Maurice, you are setting 
up as the chivalrous defender of that 
young lady. You usually allow me to 
express my little opinions in peace.” 
Maurice smiled satirically but said noth- 
ing. “I think,” pursued Rosamond in 
a lower voice, “that were I inclined to 
be jealous, your Quixotic admiration of 
Miss Clairmont might afford me a pre- 
text. You yourself wrote me that she 
took you on a long tete-a-tete drive.” 

Maurice gave a shrug which expressed 
some fatigue of body or spirit : “ There 
was nothing very particular in that. In 
fact, I really considered at the time that 
it was a little heartless in her aunt to re- 
mind me of my safe middle age in that 
way, for Frank, her almost declared lover, 
has never enjoyed such an honor. We 
elderly men have our little privileges.” 

“Elderly men! You shall call your- 
self nothing of the kind. So Frank 
really wants to marry her ?” 

“Yes, and I look upon his success as 
certain, and wish for nothing so much. 
Don’t allow yourself to be prejudiced 
against that sweet, lovely girl.” 

“But, Maurice, my instincts are all 
against her.” 

Maurice looked bored, but said to him- 
self that he had never before believed in 
women’s intuitive perceptions. 

“ On my word !” he said aloud, “ I can- 
not understand why you seem in such an 
ill-humor. It is a bad habit to cultivate : 
be gentle and sweet as women should be.” 

“Oh, those are Miss Ciairmont’s attri- 
butes — gentleness and goodness. Ah, 
well ! I believe I have been cross : for- 
give me. I promise even to like my fu- 
ture sister-in-law. Only, Maurice, don’t 


be too loud in your praises of her. I 
am not used to being governed, and of 
late you have seemed disposed to try to 
govern me.” 

“If I wish you to be gentle and wo- 
manly, dear, it is because of my affection 
for you, not because I wish to govern 
you. God knows, I have no idea of gov- 
erning any one : I cannot govern my- 
self. Tell me about the Newport peo- 
ple, Rosamond.” 

She unloosed an entire budget of gos- 
sip, but he did not seem to listen. 

“Did you ever reflect,” he interrupted 
presently, “ that it was a great pity I gave 
up my profession ?” 

“No. Politics must be your profes- 
sion now.” 

“Politics cannot fill the entire year. 
While I was in full practice I had no op- 
portunity for an idle moment : there was 
always an effort to be made, a result to 
be accomplished.” 

“ Exactly. And you lived in a whirl 
of excitement, and had no time for so- 
cial indulgences. Not a man in office 
has your social gifts, and it is quite time 
that you gave up hard work and began 

to enjoy existence. If is elected 

next year, as we feel certain that he will 
be, papa and Judge Herbert say that you 
must have the mission to France or Eng- 
land. That will be delightful for both of 
us.” 

“Very delightful,” said Maurice, smo- 
thering a yawn, “but a very great honor 
for me, at all events. Such things are 
called the prizes of life, I suppose. I 
used to have high dreams of benefiting 
my fellow-men — of serving my country 
like a patriot. When I hear of such 
rewards, I seem to have striven only 
for personal aggrandizement — good fat 
offices, honors, titles.” 

“ I had always suspected you of am- 
bition, not humility. Some one must be 
at the top of the wave, and you always 
loved success.” 

“ Success ? Oh yes. I have no tem- 
per to endure anything which is not suc- 
cess. But you want me to go in for social 
success, and, after all, what is it ? To fill 
up life with petty pleasures, trivial occu- 
pations — to have thicker carpets, costlier 


100 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


pictures and longer dinners than your 
neighbors. But, after all, it is almost as 
good as political c u coess. H istory teaches 
nothing if it does not teach that no single 
man has time or chance to achieve a hun- 
dredth part of the work he dreamed of ; 
and for one who accomplishes one small 
result worth having there are hundreds 
whose entire lives are spent in what 
proves to be abortive work. Besides, 
as the world goes now, the real/hearty 
workers are becoming the tools of men 
who believe in no reality at all except 
the rewards of falsehood and fraud, and 
the visionary who indulges in the hope 
of a noble government is sickened by 
the sight of sleek officiality and a world 
of knaves imploring to be bought and 
sold.” 

“ Oh, Maurice, what heresies ! What 
would papa say ?” 

‘‘Your father is one of our last great 
men : the race is dying out.” 

‘‘You take a dark view of things. You 
are not usually a dreamer intolerant of 
realities and wrapped up in the visions 
he gazes at from starry heights. What 
has happened to depress you ?” 

‘‘Nothing but inaction,” returned Mau- 
rice with some vehemence and with a 
gloomy face. ‘‘I have had nothing to 
do this summer — only too much time to 
think. Give me work, hard, remorseless, 
grinding work, to do, and I shall finally 
get to be myself again.” He rose as he 
spoke and stretched his arms in a listless 
fashion. 

‘‘I suppose the truth is,” remarked 
Rosamond, ‘‘that you are not well. I 
saw at once that you looked pale, and 
your eyes seem sunken. I will give you 
some belladonna and nux to take before 
you go up stairs, and I dare say you will 
look at life more cheerfully to-morrow.” 

‘‘No, thank you,”' answered Maurice 
with a grim smile. — ‘‘Here, Aunt Agnes, 
I will, resign Rosamond to you. She is 
trying to persuade me to try her homoeo- 
pathic remedies because I am a little out 
of humor, but I will not allow her to get 
any such influence over me. I know 
very well what it is to yield one iota — to 
swallow everything she offers afterward 
as we swallow the Thirty-nine Articles : 


refusing would be worse than breaking 
all the commandments at once.” 

He left Mrs. Meredith with Rosamond, 
and sauntered through the rooms. The 
night had grown cold, and Frank had in- 
sisted that Miss Clairmont should come in. 
She stood under the chandelier now, and 
Jack was urging her to sing. He admit- 
ted that he knew all the duets in the world, 
and an opera-score was produced at once, 
from which the two sang for an hour. 
Maurice went out of doors and walked 
to the extremity of the ground to escape 
the sound of Felise’s voice. As for 
Frank, he sat down by Mrs. Anderson, 
and for the first time showed signs of 
fatigue after his long cruise. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

Jack Clifford pronounced Saintford 
delightful. “ Why,” he demanded every 
morning at breakfast — “ why have I nev- 
er been in Saintford before? Perdidi 
diem.” 

But he lost no days now that he had 
come, and at once became prime mover 
in all sorts of summer pleasures. The 
moment he entered Mrs. Knight’s par- 
lors he suggested that they were admira- 
bly adapted for private theatricals, and 
as the idea pleased every one, a play 
was chosen at once and put in course of 
preparation, Jack of course self-elected 
manager, costume - designer and scene- 
painter. He was Figaro -ci, Figaro -la, 
and Figaro unsatisfied unless he out- 
shone, out-flirted, out-danced every oth- 
er man. Every morning he painted 
three hours in Mrs. Knight’s back par- 
lor in a costume of black velvet braided 
with gold, and a cap on his blonde head 
to match ; and a better scene - painter 
never sketched an outline. At eleven 
o’clock the party assembled for rehear- 
sal, and although he had good-naturedly 
given all the best parts to the Laytons 
and Morton, he created a character for 
himself in place of the inoffensive per- 
sonage he had chosen to represent, and 
forced the others to look to their laurels 
not to be utterly eclipsed. We need not 
say that in society no one could approach 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


ioi 


him. When talk was in progress, he 
was always on his native heath, while 
the ladies were at table he was the most 
charming fellow, and when he was left 
alone with his own sex, bursts of laugh- 
ter followed his stories. Who like him 
could make the evening a carnival-time 
of gayety and mirth, yet better still be- 
witch the ear and bewilder the heart in 
soft-voiced tete-a-tetes under the white 
stars ? Easy enough it seemed for Jack 
to invoke 

The delight of happy laughter, 

The delight of low replies, 

where all women were concerned ; and, 
in short, wherever he stood he was never 
rayless : other men were sombre beside 
him. 

The very play which he was now su- 
perintending passed for his own. Al- 
though he disclaimed the authorship, it 
was considered a justifiable falsehood, 
like that of the author of Waverley. But 
the truth of the matter was, that Frank 
Layton had written it years before for 
an occasion like the present, when no 
comedietta to be found in print furnish- 
ed a sufficient number of equally import- 
ant parts to satisfy six or eight amateurs 
whose ambition was not to be satisfied by 
subordinate roles. When the evening 
for its production finally came, the play 
passed off delightfully. The audience 
were carried, so to say, quite off their 
feet, and the actors and actresses were 
sufficiently pleased with themselves to 
experience high good-humor. They were 
all titled people, all vicomtes and mar- 
quises, and with their splendid Watteau 
costumes made the stage look like an 
animated picture from a French fan. 
Felise had never looked so well, for her 
toilette was artistically designed by Jack, 
and carried out her most becoming colors 
of blue and silver. Maurice was in black 
velvet and silver, and played a clever, 
wicked part of equal devotion to three 
lovely women. Frank was the real lover 
of Felise, and her husband as well, while 
Violet was a very magnificent vicomtesse 
who tried to get everybody’s husband 
and lover away. It was all bright and 
spirited, as such a play should be, with 
plenty of repartee and badinage. Felise 


sang little songs here ana there, and 
Violet danced a minuet with Maurice. 
Mrs. Meredith had the only character 
which carried any deep earnestness, and 
she put much pathos into her acting, 
but it was as a whole, light, charming 
and graceful, as private theatricals should 
be, and the situations were always re- 
lieved of passion or sentimentality by the 
delicate wit and incessant raillery of three 
charming women. 

Maurice gave his arm to Felise when 
the last act was over and supper was an- 
nounced. “ Come, marquise,” said he : 
‘‘you and I look remarkably well togeth- 
er. Your azure quite overpowers Frank’s 
purple, but our costumes were designed 
for harmonious combination. Won’t you 
pay me a compliment?. I feel in such 
good spirits : I never thought myself a 
quarter so good-looking before.” 

Felise made him a ravishing little 
curtsey. ‘‘There is no doubt,” she re- 
turned, laughing, ‘‘that you are got up 
for conquest. Confess that you would 
like to wear such a splendid dress all 
the time.” 

‘‘It would depend somewhat on my 
occupations. This is an admirable dress 
for making love in, but I doubt if I could 
argue a case in court in it. Somebody 
has said that the real change in the spir- 
it of society came in with the fashion 
of trousers. I quite believe it : I feel to- 
night like going in for general fascinating 
wickedness. For instance. Miss Clair- 
mont, I should like to tell you how thor- 
oughly irresistible you were in the play, 
and that I never did anything with so 
much zest as making love to you. Let 
us go on playing for ever : one may do 
what one likes in a play.” 

“ Perhaps so,” returned Felise, her col- 
or overpowering the soup^on of rouge 
that she wore; ‘‘but to play the same 
thing over and over again might grow 
tiresome.” 

‘‘Oh, the play would develop. So far 
as this has gone, I am quite disgusted 
with the tame results of all my intense 
speeches. I am too energetic to be al- 
ways an unsuccessful lover, as I was 
to-night : in the sequel I should get my 
deserts.” 


102 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


They had reached the supper-table, 
and all the guests crowded about Felise. 
She was so beautiful to-night that every 
one was drawn toward her, yet no one 
could have defined her peculiar charm. 
Was it her airy dress of silk and gauze, 
puffed, ribboned and hooped, or her 
sunny hair piled high on a cushion and 
adorned with a jeweled aigrette ? The 
women declared her beauty lay in her 
dress, while the men fancied that the 
fascination was deeper and more in- 
trinsic. However, as Heine says, when 
one’s head is knocked off by a ball, one 
does not lose time in considering the 
calibre of the cannon. It is quite cer- 
tain that few of Felise’s admirers had 
full possession of their heads, so it is not 
worth while to analyze where the pleas- 
ing mystery of womanly attractions end- 
ed and the charm of costume began. 
But Miss Clairmont did not linger long 
to be admired, but seeing Rosamond 
Clifford at a distance, went up to her 
hospitably. “I am so glad you came!” 
said she cordially, for Miss Clifford had 
half declined to attend the play on ac- 
count of her deep mourning. 

“ Oh, Mr. Layton insisted that I should 
come,” returned Rosamond: ‘‘he would 
hear none of my scruples.” 

“ I am so pleased ! It would have been 
a great pity if, when Mr. Layton was so 
good as to undertake a part, he could 
not have had you in the audience. I 
am sure you think he acted well.” 

“ Oh yes : Mr. Layton does everything 
well. But it was Mr. Frank Layton who 
pleased me best : he quite touched me 
at times. In the second act, when you 
first enter in this dress you are wearing, 
and he wishes to tell you how beautiful 
he thinks you, yet fears to offend you, 
since you are so indifferent to liim, it 
was very delicately done.” 

Frank was at Miss Clairmont’ s elbow 
with a glass of wine, which he now offer- 
ed to her gravely. ‘‘Your aunt says you 
must drink this,” said he, ‘‘for you look 
so particularly gay she is afraid you are 
fatigued.” 

“ But I never take wine,” returned Fe- 
lise. 

‘‘Mrs. Knight said you were to drink 


this, and afterward open the ball with 
me.” 

‘‘I always obey Aunt Laura,” said Fe- 
lise, and taking the glass she sipped the 
sherry slowly, making faces of horror 
the while. 

Frank watched her with a grave air. 
“ Perhaps you would prefer to dance with 
some one else,” said he presently. ‘‘It 
is a very good idea to swallow a nau- 
seous draught which is to restore your 
strength, even if you are obliged to make 
faces at every sip. But you need not 
carry your admirable principle of obe- 
dience to your aunt so far as to accept 
me for a partner in a similar spirit.” 

“ What partner could I prefer to you ?” 

“ Judging from my wretched experience 
of the past week,” retorted Frank, ‘‘it 
might be Clifford.” 

‘‘If you promise not to tease me,” ob- 
served Felise, ‘‘I should like very, very 
much to dance with you.” 

She took his arm without waiting for 
his promise, and they went toward the 
parlors, already cleared for dancing. 

“ I heard what Rosamond was saying 
to you,” observed Frank. “ Did my act- 
ing strike you as anything different from 
my ordinary manner, Felise?” 

‘‘No: several times you said or did 
something to-night which seemed very 
familiar — quite your ordinary way of 
speaking to me.” 

‘‘You are quite right. The part was 
hackneyed to me, I have acted it so 
long: it is a difficult role for an impa- 
tient man to play, that of an ardent lover 
who seems to have every right to speak, 
yet whose confession of love is always 
tabooed as something quite malapropos. 
I confess that you too reminded me in the 
play of your real self— piquant, provoking, 
dear beyond all words, yet rather pitiless. 
Still, it came out all right, Felise.” 

“ Dear friend,” said she with a bewitch- 
ing air, ‘‘you were not to tease me.” 

“ Don’t call me your friend : call things 
by their right names — I am your lover.” 

‘‘I really cannot tell,” exclaimed Fe- 
lise with an air of bewilderment, “whe- 
ther you are repeating lines from the 
play or not.” 

“In the play,” whispered Frank, “I 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


103 


am your husband — out of it, your lover. 
There, now ! I can make my position 
considerably better than that of any oth- 
er man, let me play which part you will.” 

“You are going to be my traveling- 
companion,” returned Felise with a pen- 
sive air, but with no more sign in her as- 
pect of having heard him say anything 
in particular than if he had murmured a 
verse from one of the Psalms in her ear. 
“Think of it: in five days this pleasant 
idle life will be over, and everybody sets 
out for a different corner of the world.” 

“Four of us, at any rate, keep togeth- 
er,” said Frank; “and I confess that I 
am heartless enough not to dread this 
breaking-up at all.” 

The quadrille was over, and Jack Clif- 
ford came up to Felise and claimed the ^ 
succeeding waltz. He was quite superb 
in ruby velvet and ribbons and lace, 
which he wore as if born to such frip- 
pery. “What was Frank Layton say- 
ing to you, Miss Clairmont?” he asked. 
“I have been watching you both, and 
deciding that he was making himself 
unnecessarily agreeable.” 

“Oh, we naturally talked about you, 
Jack,” returned Frank with a happy air. 

“ I doubt it. I think too highly of my- 
self to believe that you could even allude 
to me without growing green with j ealousy. 
As for me, Mrs. Knight kindly introduced 
me to two young ladies : neither of them 
spoke a word, which was delightful, as I 
rarely get a chance to say as much as I 
wish. Still, I am exhausted a little, and 
need to be restored, Miss Clairmont. I 
am so happy to get back to you ! I am 
so glad the plays are over ! In future I 
need do nothing but devote myself to 
you.” 

Frank walked away. 

The party was a gay one, and every 
one was waltzing save a few people in 
the hall and reception-room. Miss Clif- 
ford was one of these, and was surround- 
ed by a constantly-changing group of 
men whom Mrs. Knight brought up and 
introduced. Rosamond would have dis- 
claimed any intention of being either 
haughty or dull, but she did not find it 
essential to say anything in particular to 
these unimportant acquaintances, and few 


of them possessed the nerve to go on en- 
deavoring to entertain her when she asked 
the same question for the third time with 
the same air of blank indifference as to 
the answer. She was far enough from 
being dull, but was a goddess in exile 
here, for in her own world she was used 
to being courted, and any monosyllable 
she might vouchsafe in answer to the 
conversation offered her was credited 
with peculiar force and significance. She 
posed well and carried her habitual air 
of elegance in her manner, and Saint- 
ford people did not impress her as de- 
serving an especial effort on her part. 
Maurice hung about her for a time : then, * 
finding that she was the object of Mrs. 
Knight’s hospitable cares, he returned to 
the parlors and went about searching 
for Felise, for he had deliberately made 
up his mind to enjoy one dance with her. 
She passed'Tiim presently with Leslie 
Wilmot, her great eyes alight with the 
delirious waltz -music and her cheeks 
tinged with a pale rose. The band stop- 
ped suddenly, and the dancers paused, 
fanned and chatted. Maurice went up 
to Felise and whispered in her ear. 

“But I am engaged,” she said. 

“ No matter,” he muttered with a short 
laugh: “so am I.” The waltz-measure 
began again. Their eyes met a moment, 
and hers fell. He put his arm about her 
and they moved away. 

Miss Clifford, while listening to the 
reminiscences of a deaf old. general, sud- 
denly became interested in the talk of 
two young men in the doorway : one of 
them was the partner whom Miss Clair- 
mont had just slighted for Maurice. 

“ I call it nothing but infernal coquetry 
on her part,” said he. 

“ Oh, it wasn’t her fault : Senator Lay- 
ton carries all before him. I wonder how 
that magnificent Miss Clifford likes his 
goings on with the little French girl ?” 

Rosamond’s cold face flushed. Sure- 
ly, it could not be that Maurice was 
waltzing ! She felt that if it were so, it 
was a sin against herself which she could 
never forgive. Not once in all the nine 
years that she had known him intimate- 
ly had he ever offered to dance with her. 
She was outwardly a cold woman, but 


104 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


she loved Maurice with an intensity he 
little dreamed of. Long before he had 
ever met her as more than a mere ac- 
quaintance she had flushed and trem- 
bled with the hope of one day winning 
him as her husband. For years her fa- 
ther and Judge Herbert had more than 
suspected that her feverish interest in 
certain debates in the House, and earn- 
estness in promoting the success of cer- 
tain measures, were due to unusual re- 
gard for some man concerned in them ; 
and nothing could have pleased them so 
well as such a choice as she had made 
with all the world to choose from. But 
Maurice’s steady indifference to marriage 
might have dismayed a less tenacious 
woman. Rosamond knew, however, that 
until he fell in love with some one else 
she had nothing to fear, but everything 
to hope, since a union with her would 
ensure him success whichever way his 
ambition turped ; and his ambition she 
counted on as his master-motive. She 
was not deceived : after a time, from his 
intimacy with her father, Maurice gravi- 
tated to her, and a word from her shrewd 
old friend Judge Herbert made the en- 
gagement. 

Rosamond had always told herself 
that she was not loved as other women 
are loved, but, lofty-minded and passion- 
less herself, she even preferred that her 
demigod should have none of the weak- 
nesses of lesser men ; and for him to 
become a sighing lover would have been 
to change the character of their lofty- 
minded courtship into something com- 
monplace. So long as he cared for no 
other woman, Rosamond was content 
with his negative devotion, but the mo- 
ment a suspicion of his interest in Felise 
arose in her mind all such philosophy 
was banished to give way to the sharpest 
pangs of feminine jealousy. She now 
determined to see for herself if Maurice 
were indeed dancing. Young Schuyler 
— who had been introduced to her half 
an hour before, and been received with 
such icy coldness that he was convinced 
at once that the heiress considered no 
man born of woman as fit to touch the 
hem of her garment — was suddenly al- 
most paralyzed by a radiant smile from 


Miss Clifford. He advanced trembling- 
ly, for her glance seemed to carry a roy- 
al command. Her hauteur had warmed 
into cordiality, her impassivity into in- 
terest. The loftiest among us need occa- 
sionally the aid of lesser beings when we 
have wishes to carry out : even Juno as- 
sumes the girdle of Venus. 

“ It is so warm here,” remarked Miss 
Clifford in her serene, stately way, ‘‘I 
should like to walk a little.” She lean- 
ed on Schuyler’s arm and allowed him 
to talk to her, and he made himself as 
agreeable as a man might with half his 
faculties engaged in making a mental 
estimate as to what prominent position 
under government Secretary Clifford 
would have him appointed to in case he 
should decide to take advantage of the 
heiress’s evident partiality. His Alnaschar 
visions fled when suddenly the lady ob- 
served in her most freezing tones, “ You 
are very good. You can leave me here, 
and I will watch the dancers for a little 
while.” 

The moment that Miss Clifford enter- 
ed the door of the parlor she had caught 
sight of Maurice dancing with Miss Clair- 
mont, and no sooner had she seen him 
than she felt chilled to the heart. She 
did not know that look upon his face: 
his eyes were full of softened fire — his 
lips wore a languid smile. And ah ! how 
fair her rival was ! 

Felise happened to look up, and met 
Miss Clifford’s stony stare. ‘‘Oh, Mr. 
Layton,” she whispered, ‘‘Miss Clifford 
is standing in the door all alone, and look- 
ing at us so strangely. We must not 
finish this waltz : you must go to her. I 
know she is very angry with me.” 

The music stopped opportunely, and 
the break afforded him an opportunity 
to offer his arm to his partner and lead 
her out of the circle of dancers. His 
features had suddenly become rigid, but 
he said nothing except to utter an ex- 
pression of wonder as to the whereabouts 
of his brother. 

“ Here is Mr. Clifford coming for me,” 
Felise returned inappositely ; and she 
took his offered arm hurriedly with a 
trembling sort of smile. Maurice cross- 
ed the room and approached Rosamond, 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


who stood alone, superb and cold as a 
solitary ice-peak, awaiting him. 

“My dear Rosamond.” said he, lifting 
her impassive hand and putting it with- 
in his arm, “have you any wish to go 
home ? The carriage is waiting.” 

She assented frigidly, and without 
making adieux he brought her scarf, put 
her in the carriage and they drove to 
the cottage in silence. On reaching the 
house they went into the library, where 
Luigi turned up the lights and drew out 
easy-chairs for them. 

“My dear Rosamond,” began Maurice 
again the moment they were left alone, 
“since when have you learned to play 
the basilisk?” 

“The basilisk? I do not understand 
you.” 

“ I never saw a basilisk, but fabulous 
tradition declares that it glares fixedly 
and transfixes its unlucky victim. I had 
much the feeling of such a victim when 
I met your eyes a quarter of an hour 
ago.” 

“You need not exert yourself in the 
way of wit, Maurice : I do not care to be 
entertained. I certainly was much as- 
tonished to see you dancing, and to hear 
you spoken of on all sides as Miss Clair- 
mont’s professed admirer.” 

Maurice flushed angrily : “I do not 
believe any one ever suggested such an 
absurdity.” 

“ I am not accustomed to having my 
word questioned. I certainly heard two 
young men speak of your devotion to 
Miss Clairmont, and one of them ex- 
pressed his wonder how I liked your 
attentions to her.” 

“ I have paid Miss Clairmont no at- 
tentions which even a fool could remark 
on as anything particular.” 

“You are excited, Maurice. I have 
seen you in society for twelve years, yet 
I never knew of your dancing before. 
But I suppose this sort of thing has been 
going on all summer.” 

“ I know not how to define anything 
in the way of expression so vague as 
‘ this sort of thing.’ As for my dancing, 
I never danced with Miss Clairmont be- 
fore to-night. Since you are measuring 
with singular regard to details the par- 


io 5 

ticulars of my conduct this summer, my 
confession shall be absolute, entire : I 
did one evening waltz with Violet for 
about thirty seconds.” 

“How came you to dance to-night?” 

Maurice laughed, but there was little 
enough amusement in his laugh. “The 
music made me feel like a young fellow 
perhaps — perhaps I chose to do it. But, 
my dear, I will say to you that had I seen 
fit to dance madly all summer with every 
light-footed girl in Saintford, I was de- 
barred from such diversion by no par- 
ticular reason. Your own enthusiasm 
for dancing I have never once thought 
of restricting, as your exploits in the 
German during the two last seasons 
abundantly testify. But excuse me five 
minutes if you please : I will go up stairs 
and put on my usual dress : I am sick 
of masquerading.” 

He left her, but soon returned, hoping 
that she would have the good taste to 
change the subject, but she had, in fact, 
but just collected her ideas upon her 
grievance, and was ready fairly to begin. 
“The truth is,” she said, “that you made 
yourself ridiculous by taking a part in 
that play.” 

“I was wishing for a frank, unvarnish- 
ed piece of criticism upon my acting: 
hence your ingenuous attack charms 
me. 

“What induced you to take a part ?” 

“A lifelong but hitherto suppressed 
histrionic ambition.” 

“ Maurice, you are trying to tease me.” 

“You certainly are not only trying to 
annoy me, but are succeeding admira- 
bly.” 

“ Of course what I said about the play 
did not concern your acting. I do not 
need to tell you that I never in my life 
saw a better actor. But your dignity 
and your reputation are too sacred for 
me to allow you to trifle with them.” 

“So far in my life, dear, I have sup- 
ported my own dignity and made my 
own reputation.” 

Rosamond broke down like a weaker 
woman, and, leaning over the arm of 
her chair, buried her face in her hand- 
kerchief. “ I have been engaged to you 
for eighteen months,” she said presently 


TO 6 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


in a choked voice, “but you have never 
asked to dance with me : you have never 
offered me any of those little attentions 
a woman likes to receive from the man 
she — she loves. I have let you take 
your own course, because I believed you 
too proud and indifferent to be the slave 
of any woman ; and now — and now — ” 
It was a moment before he replied, 
and in that moment many things had 
been revealed to him. Instantaneously 
his mind reverted to the monotony of 
his long engagement to Rosamond. She 
was right : he had never surrounded her 
with that atmosphere of affectionate dem- 
onstrations which other engaged lovers 
delight in, and had excused himself for his 
coldness by remembering that Rosamond 
was neither youthful nor tender — that her 
mind as well as his own was taken up 
with more important things. To-night, 
the moment the dance-music began, a 
resistless impulse had seized him to waltz, 
yet he had often enough heard strains of 
more enticing harmony without feeling 
the inspiration of any such sweet delir- 
ium. He had longed to dance with Fe- 
lise. For the first time he had clasped 
her hand, his arm had been about her 
form, so swaying, so slender, yet dimp- 
ling and delicious in the exquisite and 
almost infantile softness of its curves. 
Had he not danced to-night he would 
have felt that he had not lived : he w r as 
at fever-heat yet with the thought of those 
too brief minutes. Yet no similar fan- 
tasy had ever possessed him in the past, 
and he had watched Rosamond’s blonde 
flower- crowned head gyrating against a 
thousand manly shoulders, first and last, 
without one feeling of jealousy or an im- 
pulse to waltz with her himself. For the 
first time he felt that he had failed in his 
relations to his promised wife ; yet had he 
ever, even in offering himself, professed 
to regard her with passionate fondness ? 
He had only asked her promise to be 
his wife, and their habit had been a 
calm, satisfying, equal-minded compan- 
ionship which discountenanced roses and 
raptures. But comradeship between man 
and woman was impossible, it seemed. 
What a wretched mistake for a man to 
impose tasks upon himself! 


“ My dear friend,” said he kindly, put- 
ting his hand affectionately upon Rosa- 
mond’s coronet of braids with a vague 
wonder going on mentally as to the se- 
cret of the difference in physical attrac- 
tion between women, “if I have ever 
failed in the attentions it seems now that 
you wished me to pay you from the be- 
ginning of our engagement, my excuse 
must be in great measure my misconcep- 
tion of your character. You seem to me 
so pure and cold that it has been natural 
for me to treat you en reine. As to the 
absurd question of my dancing, you know 
perfectly well what my social habits are 
in Washington : a thousand other inter- 
ests engross and distract me, and if I 
walk through the rooms once at any ball 
or reception except your own, 1 consider 
that my duty is done. Here it is quite 
different. I have, to my great unhappi- 
ness, had no opportunity to carry out the 
plans for the summer which you know 
lay so near my heart, and, grieved, dis- 
appointed and idle, I have amused my- 
self with whatever came uppermost here 
among Frank’s circle. . . . Come, now, 
I hear the carriage at the gate. F orgive 
my absurdities to-night, and I promise 
you I will neither dance nor play again. 
The penalty is more severe than the 
pleasure is sweet.” 

Rosamond looked up at him with af- 
fection in her glance, and he kissed her 
and sat down beside her. She moved 
toward him and placed her hand in his. 
It was rather in his way : there needs to 
be a certain rapture about a hand-clasp 
to ensure any pleasure in its indefinite 
continuance, and Maurice felt very stu- 
pidly calm, and may have been glad of 
the relief afforded by the entrance of 
Frank and the Merediths. 

Jack Clifford had not come back with 
the rest of the party, but had remained 
to talk over the play with Miss Clair- 
mont. However, that was nothing new, 
and Frank need not have looked grave. 
The people at the cottage, who might 
have been expected to see the young 
man occasionally, since he was staying 
in the same house, were now quite ac- 
customed to his absence between cock- 
crow and midnight. 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


107 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Attentive though Jack Clifford had 
been to Miss Clairmont before the play, 
such devotion was meagre compared with 
that which he displayed during the last 
few days of his prolonged visit. It was 
his habit, to be sure, to make his flirta- 
tions apparent to the eyes of other men : 
he was too liberal to keep his treasure of 
feeling invisible, guarding it under lock 
and key, and liked somewhat to flaunt 
his good - fortune. But nothing could 
have been more unlike Felise than to 
accept such a parade of ostentatious hom- 
age, and everybody began to ask every- 
body else what his or her opinions were 
on the result of the affair. Frank Lay- 
ton was, however, the exception : the 
subject was avoided before him, and he 
made no allusion to it until one night 
he looked into his brother’s room a little 
past eleven o’clock. The day had been 
a gay one : a matinee dansa?ite in the 
neighborhood had been followed by a 
quiet dinner at the cottage. Felise had 
remained through the evening and sung 
duets with Jack Clifford, who was now 
escorting her home. Frank had appar- 
ently been in the best of spirits, and had 
never been more amusing, yet when he 
entered Maurice’s room he was silent, 
and leaned against the window-casement 
the picture of dejection. 

“ Going to bed, Frank ?” inquired Mau- 
rice, looking up from his writing. 

“Yes, I shall go to bed : I have no in- 
terest in meeting Clifford after he comes 
back.” 

“Tell me,” exclaimed Maurice, ab- 
ruptly wheeling round in his chair, “how 
do you stand with Miss Clairmont at 
present ?” 

“ The position is so clear that the most 
careless looker-on may define it. She 
will not see anybody, hear anybody, nor, 
I presume, think of anybody, but Clif- 
ford.” 

Maurice shouted with laughter at the 
peculiar misery of Frank’s tone. 

“ I am so glad if it amuses you,” said 
Frank, stroking his moustache with his 
most superb air. “ I confess I see noth- 
ing in it to laugh at. Jack is twelve years 
younger than I, and handsomer than I, 


with plenty of dash and go about him. 
He may be just the husband for her, but, 
by Heaven ! I don’t want him to have 
her.” 

“Jack is young enough and handsome 
enough and clever enough, but, I assure 
you, Miss Clairmont no more thinks of 
marrying him than she does of marrying 
Wilmot.” 

“ Then why does she encourage him ?” 
said Frank. 

Maurice laughed again : “ Sit down, 
Frank, take a fan and get cool. It does 
seem cruel. Here you are, rich, hand- 
some, favored of all the gods, yet — O 
mortal Dellius ! — the day of your hap- 
piness is overcast. You invited Jack for 
two days, and he has remained two 
weeks : he has established himself in 
your house as if it were his own — smokes 
your cigars — drinks your wine, and criti- 
cises it — drives your horses, and lames 
them — and, worst of all, falls in love 
with the only woman in the world you 
ever tried to win.” 

“I mind none of these things,” return- 
ed Frank, laughing in spite of himself. 
“ What I deplore is her bad taste in fancy- 
ing him.” 

“ Bah ! As the women say, she cares 
not a pin for him. She does not lack 
shrewdness, and knows the sound of a 
penny trumpet from the note of a silver 
clarion. Jack’s cheap flourishes amuse 
her. When she is in love she will not 
sing sentimental duets with the object 
of her fondness and laugh at his phras- 
ing; nor, when she starts to go home, 
will she be so careful to tuck up her 
flounces all around, and then decline to 
take his arm because she does not wish 
to crush her sleeves, etc., as she did half 
an hour ago.” 

“ I cannot understand her,” said Frank 
vehemently. “She knows my feelings 
for her : I will swear she likes me. Per- 
haps that is just the point where the so- 
lution of the problem turns. It may be 
that with all her trust and faith in me — 
her fondness even in a childish way — 
she stops short of the feeling which will 
allow her to yield to my wishes. Per- 
haps I inspire friendship — no more. I 
cannot, I will not, accept her friendship : 


TO 8 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


it may be sweet, it may be precious, but 
it is not enough for me.” 

Maurice had turned back to his papers : 
his hand trembled a little as he assorted 
them. ‘‘Mark my words, Frank,” he 
replied : “ if you are patient for a few 
weeks, your suit will finally prosper. I 
am certain that in her heart she at this 
moment is decided that you are to be 
her husband.” 

Something in his brother’s tone con- 
vinced Frank that he had fatigued him. 
‘‘Forgive me,” he exclaimed, pausing by 
the table as he strode about the room : 
‘‘you must be very tired of my unlucky 
love-affair. A man should keep his feel- 
ings to himself, for the same lights and 
shadows, though they fall on us both, fall 
with too much difference for either of 
us to measure the brightness or gloom 
of the other. Well, I will go to bed and 
try to be patient. It is a little singular : 
I have always told myself that I would 
not fall in love until all conditions were 
favorable. I never approved of the waste 
of feeling, energy, hope and strength 
which forms the bitterness of disappoint- 
ment when a man experiences a reverse. 
It did seem to me that little girl might 
love me. Why, a dozen times this sum- 
mer, before I went to Newport, I felt that 
if I were even a trifle peremptory with 
her I could have put out my hand to 
claim her: she was like a child with 
me, and obeyed me gladly. But I have 
a horror of being ungenerous : I asked 
so much of her, I hated to hurry her.” 

‘‘Frank, your modesty humiliates one.” 

“ I have little reason for any particular 
self-respect just now. I look at you, and 
compare myself with your dignity, your 
manhood, your calm possession of your 
reason, while here am I the slave of a 
little girl — beautiful, to be sure, but ab- 
solutely pitiless — consuming myself in 
jealousy because she encourages another 
man — unable to sleep for thinking of her 
— given over to ennui in her absence, in 
her presence hearing with her ears, see- 
ing with her eyes ! Pshaw ! I despise 
myself. You make something of your 
life : I am throwing mine out of the win- 
dow. Now and then I call reason to my 
aid, and reach a point of elevation which 


makes me smile at the insignificance of 
my hopes and fears. I feel indignant 
that when there are worthy interests and 
ambitions in the world, I should be tread- 
ing the crooked paths a lover must take 
if he meanders about in the track of a 
woman. I can quite understand, Mau- 
rice, that you, with settled aims and a 
wide career of energies, can little ap- 
preciate a state of feeling like mine.” 

Maurice laid a heavy hand on Frank’s 
arm and looked up : the eyes of the 
brothers met, and each smiled. ‘‘I am 
not quite a bundle of parchments yet,” 
said the elder, ‘‘and your hopes of win- 
ning Miss Clairmont are sacred and dear 
to me. But I do think it a pity for you 
to become the prey of restless fears. I 
am absolutely certain that that mocking, 
eluding little goddess will finally be 
changed into a tender, blushing mortal 
maiden in your arms. I really long to 
see you happy, Frank.” 

They looked at each other silently for 
a moment, and Frank pushed aside the 
dark curls from his brother’s forehead 
with something of the demonstrative fond- 
ness of their boyhood. Then turning 
away, he paced the room slowly. “ It is 
not altogether that I want love,” said he 
after a long silence : “ I want happiness. 
I ask questions of life now : What does 
it tend to ? What means this tremen- 
dous and ever-increasing aggregation of 
human existences born for desire and 
struggle ? I have become a little morbid 
in the loneliness of the hurrying years, 
and I need a daily life which will make 
me happy in the present, instead of leav- 
ing me time to analyze the characters of 
men and the worth of their destinies 
until my vision gets so keen that I grow 
into the wide circle of the world’s forces, 
and the chances of the individual unit, 
the single mortal life, seem as insignif- 
icant as those of a coral insect. Yes, a 
tardy fulfillment of conditions has at last 
offered me a glimpse of the woman I can 
love devotedly. I want her by my side : 
I want caresses and the pressure of help- 
less baby hands to teach me the sacred- 
ness and worth of private individual ex- 
istence. A man does not question the 
eternal fitness of things while he pats the 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


109 


rosy upturned faces of his children, Mau- 
rice. I have somehow missed ambition, 
and my hopes are of the homely, every- 
day joys that make a fellowship for me 
with the humblest man alive. For you, 
there—” 

“Don’t, for God’s sake!” muttered 
Maurice hoarsely, a spasm crossing his 
face. “We are all alike, we men: we 
all want our little snatch at personal 
happiness. Let us lose it, and what re- 
mains to us for evermore? Lucky for 
some of us if there is a butterfly we may 
take the pains to chase. Constituted as 
the world is, some one must live in the 
tumults of busy life — must believe that 
political power will repay him for his 
lonely position, with its inevitable ingrat- 
itude of friends, its unworthy calumnies, 
its incessant and perplexing fatigues ; but 
don’t for a moment believe that any man 
is satisfied to live on husks.” He had 
spoken hurriedly, as if in terrible earn- 
est, but no sooner were the words uttered 
than he laughed again*. “ There, Frank !” 
he cried, in a tone of banter, “your sen- 
timent and your melancholy have so in- 
oculated me that I too am morbid. Let’s 
cheer up. Hist ! there’s Jack down stairs 
again !” 

Luigi tapped at the door, and brought 
a message to his master that Mr. Clifford 
wanted to see him. 

“Show him up here,” said Maurice. 
“I suppose, Frank, he wants a cigar in 
your company.” 

Jack entered, looking as fresh as if it 
were noonday instead of midnight. “ The 
house was so quiet I feared everybody 
was already in bed,” he remarked gay- 
ly, “and it seemed a pity, for the moon- 
light is divine. Had not Mrs. Knight, 
been cruel enough to come out and carry 
her niece away, I suspect we should have 
sat on the steps for two hours yet.” 

Frank smiled, but what a smile ! The 
tortured smile such smiles. 

“ You indulge, Jack, in aerial perspec- 
tive,” observed Maurice. 

“Who would not, old fellow, after 
walking home with Miss Clairmont ? It 
is delightful to lose one’s wits, even to 
tell lies, when one enjoys my present 
agreeable tumult of mind. Confess, 


Maurice, that, engaged to the queen of 
women although you may be, you find 
that beautiful girl a trifle bewildering.” 

“ I am a hardened lawyer, and beauti- 
ful girls are not my nietier. As for Miss 
Clairmont, she is very pretty, very clever, 
very good, but her strong point is that 
she is — very charming. Now, Jack, what 
do you want at this time <5f night? I 
have two hours’ work before me yet to 
get this ready for the early mail. Sit 
down and smoke quietly if you will.” 

“Smoke? Good Heavens! do you 
suspect me of an inclination to smoke 
in Saintford after seeing Miss Clairmont? 
I never smoke except when I require 
some simple form of consolation ; which, 
thank Goodness ! I don’t need at present. 
I came up here to ask a favor of your 
brother. — Frank, my boy ” — and he clap- 
ped his shoulder persuasively — “do a 
fellow a service, will you not? Lend 
me your guitar : I want to fill the night 
with music and all that sort of thing. 
In short, I want to serenade Miss Clair- 
mont.” 

“ The devil you do !” ejaculated Frank 
with a laugh that showed his handsome 
teeth. “ Clifford, you are absolutely the 
most deliciously - impudent dog I ever 
came across. Certainly, take my guitar 
— take anything which you fancy may 
make you irresistible to Miss Clairmont. 
Say, shall I not drive you up there and 
hold the horses quiet in the road while 
you sing beneath her window?” 

“But I am not sure which is her win- 
dow,” exclaimed Jack. “Can’t you tell 
me? Once I serenaded a lady’s-maid 
by mistake, and it took me six months 
to get over the laugh against me.” 

Frank looked at his brother with a 
droll grimace. “Would you tell him, 
Maurice ? Where do the duties of hos- 
pitality end and the rights of an unhap- 
py host begin ? — But I’ll do my best for 
you, Jack. Wait a moment.” He went 
to his own room and presently returned 
with a guitar and a Spanish cloak. Jack 
grasped the former and ran his fingers 
across the strings, then threw the mantle 
over his shoulders. “You look the gal- 
lant, at all events,” resumed Frank in 
his easiest way. “ Now, then, when you 


no 


LOVE IN IDLENESS . 


get to the house, go to the right, and on 
the south side are three windows open- 
ing on a light balcony, just above six 
blossoming oleanders. Those are Miss 
Clairmont’s rooms.” 

‘‘Upon my word, Frank Layton, you’re 
simply the best fellow I ever came across ! 
I swear to you, you shall be my best man 
at the wedding when I win her.” 

“ Let me confide to you, Jack, my pro- 
found conviction that at her wedding I 
shall be the best man.” 

And all three men roared with laugh- 
ter, and laughed so loud and long that 
Mrs. Meredith in a cambric and lace 
peignoir, and with her blonde hair in 
curl-papers, peeped in at the door to 
inquire what the joke was. 


CHAPTER XX. 

Jack Clifford had begun a flirtation 
with Felise because he never lost an op- 
portunity of perfecting himself in his fa- 
vorite science, but he was startled after a 
time at finding himself unusually in earn- 
est. He had never considered himself a 
marrying man unless events should throw 
some great heiress in his way, for he was 
comparatively poor. Still, he had been 
born lucky, and possessed a comfortable 
conviction that his high individual value 
in the world necessitated a logical se- 
quence of agreeable issues which would 
ensure his always being sufficiently well 
off to live like the people with whom he 
was most familiar, and who enjoyed the 
correct thing both in establishment and 
position. Hence, in the event of his 
settling earlier in life than he had ever 
intended, he experienced no distrust of 
the future. 

The morning after his serenade he 
made his way to Mrs. Knight’s as soon 
as he had finished his breakfast, and 
by astonishing good-fortune found Miss 
Clairmont alone, as Mrs. Knight had 
driven over to Bridgeford to do some 
shopping. Felise was very busy over 
a bit of cambric, around which she was 
frilling laces. 

‘‘What skillful little fingers you have !” 
said Jack, making this employment an 


excuse for bending very close to her. 
‘‘What are you making?” 

‘‘A little cap. for my aunt,” returned 
Felise. ‘‘She wears things like these 
in the morning. Tell me if it is pretty.” 
And she put it over her own golden hair. 

‘‘Take it off! please take it off!” he 
cried with a gesture of horror. ‘‘You 
look as if you were married, so many 
brides affect that sort of matronliness.” 

“I do not wonder,” said Felise, run- 
ning over to the glass to admire herself, 
‘‘for it is very becoming.” 

‘‘Under certain circumstances,” re- 
marked Jack with peculiar force of mean- 
ing, “ I might find that sort of thing rav- 
ishing upon your head. But my first in- 
stinct was one of profound anguish. It 
made my blood run cold : I felt as if you 
were Madame Somebody-else.” 

‘‘Ah !” sighed Felise, “ I have positive- 
ly lost three minutes, and I am so busy 
to-day ! I have so many little trifles to 
prepare before I start on our journey 
to-morrow. You go as far as New York 
with us ?” 

‘‘Yes, as far as New York — no farther. 
Indeed, I have no right to waste a day 
in doing so much, but I must have the 
pleasure of a little journey with — with 
your party. Then early next morning I 
set out for the White Mountains to escort 
my mother to the next shrine of her sum- 
mer pilgrimage. She has written, im- 
ploring me to come for her, every day 
for two weeks, for she has been perish- 
ing with the cold. But what is a freez- 
ing mother to me when I have a chance 
of seeing you?” 

‘‘What a monster!” 

“ I am what you make me,” retorted 
Jack. “ Hitherto I have been the orna- 
ment of American youth. Other moth- 
ers have sighed, ‘ Would that I too had 
such a son !’ Hereafter, I may be obliged 
to point a different moral and adorn a 
different tale. Still, now that you are 
going away, and since Frank Layton 
does not invite me to join his party, I 
will do penance and return to my filial 
duties. Think of it ! Only forty-eight 
hours more of your society, and then a 
dismal blank ! What may I carry away 
of yours, Miss Clairmont?” 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


Ill 


“What do you wish?” asked Felise 
carelessly, balancing the trifle of a cap 
on her hand and critically surveying it 
with her head on one side. 

“Ah! I ask for your heart: nothing 
else would satisfy me.” 

“ My heart ?” and she raised her great 
pensive eyes to him. “But there was to 
be no question of hearts between us, you 
remember.” 

“But, by Heaven! there is, though!” 
he exclaimed, starting forward with a 
new look on his handsome face. 

“Not in the least,” said she, quite un- 
embarrassed. “You told me when you 
came that your only wish in life was to 
have a fresh flirtation every two weeks, 
and for such a man there can be no 
question of hearts. So please, Mr. Clif- 
ford, let us talk of something else.” 

He was looking at her with a flushed 
face. “I have a heart,” he returned in 
a low voice, “ and at present it makes me 
suffer keenly. May I not talk about it?” 

“Most certainly not. Interesting al- 
though it may be to others, it can never 
be any concern of mine. You were to 
amuse me, you know, and hitherto you 
have amused me admirably. Go on 
talking nonsense for two days more : 
then, when next we meet — ” 

“You will be engaged to Frank Lay- 
ton.” 

“Now you are not amusing.” 

Jack tried to rally and speak, but he 
felt conscious of a sensation in the organ 
whose mention she had interdicted of 
positive bodily pain. “ I think relations 
are so heartless !” he resumed, however, 
presently. “Were I not obliged to con- 
duct my mother to Sharon, I should cer- 
tainly insist upon taking this journey with 
you.” 

Felise raised her eyebrows and puck- 
ered her lips firmly. 

“ Don’t laugh,” he exclaimed with ve- 
hement feeling in his tone.' “ Had you 
the faintest idea of what these weeks 
have been to me, you would at least 
pity me, now that I discover they were 
to you nothing but a fragment of your 
summer pleasure.” 

He was silent for a few moments, then 
went on: “Have I ever spoken of my 


friend Freilgrath? He was a charming 
fellow, a Dane, attached to the Danish 
embassy. One winter we saw each oth- 
er constantly, and decided that we must 
spend our summer together. He had 
not gone into society in Washington, as 
he was in deep mourning for his mother, 
to whom he was passionately attached ; 
hence, until we reached Saratoga in July, 
American social life was a sealed book 
for him. We arrived at our hotel at sev- 
en o’clock one evening, dressed, dined 
and went into the parlors, where I in- 
troduced him to my cousin, Kate King 
of New York, a girl of twenty-eight or 
more, who had been a wonderful belle 
for ten years, but was now on the point 
of marriage with Colonel Arbuthnot. 
Friedrich was also solemnly betrothed 
to a little flaxen-haired cousin at home : 
accordingly, without telling either of the 
engagement of the other, I considered 
them good company for each other. I 
heard the story of their acquaintance 
from both sides afterward, hence am in 
a position to tell you all about it. 

“Friedrich looked about him and saw 
a hundred beautiful girls talking, waltz- 
ing and promenading with gentlemen, 
and he remarked to Kate that American 
women evidently married very young. 

“‘ But these girls are not married,’ she 
returned : ‘ there are not more than a 
dozen married ladies on the floor.’ Then 
he suggested that they were engaged, 
for they all had such easy, gracious man- 
ners : they were quite unlike his idea of 
jeunes filles. But Kate assured him they 
were not even engaged. 

But,* he exclaimed, quite mystified — 
4 but they are so brilliant, so enticing, yet 
neither married nor betrothed ! How 
dare they be at once so confiding and 
so beautiful?’ Kate laughed, and told 
him he was severe upon our American 
habit of flirting. 

“ ‘ What is that — to flirt ?’ he inquired ; 
and he assured her on his honor that he 
had no idea of the meaning of the word. 

“‘To flirt,’ she explained, ‘is to play 
at being in love, without any conse- 
quences interfering with the enjoyment.’ 

“Friedrich was enchanted. ‘What!’ 
he cried. ‘ You make sweet speeches, you 


1 1 2 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


look tenderness unutterable, you waltz to- 
gether, you have long conversations the 
most spirituel ; yet it is all but an amuse- 
ment # Mon dieu ! how ravishing ! The 
flowers of love without the thorns of pas- 
sion ! the sparkle of the wine without the 
dregs 1 J±h K that I too might flirt J 

“‘And why,’ demanded Kate, ‘ should 
you not flirt like everybody else ?’ 

‘“Who would flirt with me ?’ he asked 
in a melancholy tone ; but seeing indul- 
gence in her face, he added, ‘ Would you 
— so beautiful, so surrounded, so distin- 
guished — would you teach me the charm- 
ing science ?’ 

“Kate frankly consented, taking it, 
she affirmed, for granted that I had in- 
formed him of her engagement. She 
was a little proud that she had at once 
attached him to her, for he was an ele- 
gant, accomplished fellow, with manners 
bearing that court stamp in which Eu- 
ropeans so excel us ; and they really 
went in for a tremendous flirtation, and 
for more than three weeks were entirely 
devoted to each other. Freilgrath was 
a regular Teuton, climaxed by Danish 
genius — at once sentimental and passion- 
ate, learned and ingenuous. I fancy that 
Kate with all her experience had never 
before seen a man with either so much 
freshness or so much fire in him. 

“His holiday was over at last, and he 
was recalled to the embassy. When he 
tried to bid Kate good-bye his feelings 
overwhelmed him, and he confessed him- 
self madly in love with her. Kate en- 
deavored to control his passionate out- 
burst of words. ‘ You know we were 
merely to play at making love ?’ said she 
laughing. But the poor fellow had long 
since passed the stage when mimic pas- 
sion swayed him, and he poured forth a 
torrent of imperious entreaty that she 
would be his wife. 

“ Kate was obliged to rally all her 
forces. ‘ I insist that you shall say no 
more,’ said she, ‘ for I have no right to 
listen to such a declaration from you. 
The terms of our compact were so clear 
that I cannot feel myself to blame. We 
have had a few pleasant weeks together, 
of which I shall always think with plea- 
sure- —perhaps also with some pain. But 


if you wait until to-morrow I shall intro- 
duce you to Colonel Arbuthnot, who has 
just arrived from Europe, and whom I 
am to marry in six weeks.’ Poor Freil- 
grath !” and Jack sighed. 

“Yes, poor Freilgrath ! What became 
of him ?” 

“He wrote home to be recalled, and 
as soon as his place was filled returned 
to Copenhagen. I saw him with his wife 
last year : she is a dowdy little person, 
but of noble family and an heiress.” 

“ Did he speak of Miss King ?” 

“ Not by name, but he remarked to me 
that America seemed full of charming 
girls. ‘ But,’ he added, ‘ they are, for me, 
trop spirituelles. I have thought,’ he went 
on profoundly, * how pleasant it must be 
to lead the life of English and American 
unmarried women. But, mon Dieu ! how 
do the men who marry them afterward 
like it?”’ 

Felise flushed scarlet. “I fear,” she 
said with some state, “that you have 
been telling me a story with a moral.” 

“No, Miss Clairmont, for you are far, 
very far, from being an American girl. 
Still, for me, you are trop spirituelle , and 
the sooner I go and freeze on the top of 
Mount Washington the safer it will be 
for me in my present state of feeling. 
Still, don’t altogether forget me.” 

“ Of course I shall not forget you. Why 
may we not be good friends ? It often 
occurs to me that men are very lavish to- 
ward women of feelings which give us no 
comfort, while it is hard for any of you to 
yield us frank friendliness and sympa- 
thy. I am capable myself of being an 
excellent friend.” 

“ I mistrust my capacity for subsiding 
into a calm, wise friend,” returned Jack, 
biting his lip as he gazed into her face, 
a spasm contracting his heart. “Some 
women inspire very temperate feelings, 
but I doubt if you will ever have many 
safe friends : you will make many la- 
ments over the unprofitable devotion 
which men offer, for the moment any 
one of us sees you he becomes your 
lover.” 

“You must say nothing more in this 
strain,” returned Felise with freezing 
coldness, “or we shall not get on at all.” 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


“Agreed, then,” said Jack, kneeling at 
her feet. “I vow to be your friend and 
nothing more — if I can help it. We are 
both young, and shall probably meet 
frequently in society. Let us swear an 
eternal friendship.” 

“With all my heart,” said Felise in 
her sweetest voice ; and bending toward 
him she gave him her hand with a kind 
look, for she was startled at the sight of 
tears in his eyes. As quick as lightning 
he raised it to his lips and held it there 
for a long moment. And Felise suffer- 
ed it, for she really liked him, and felt 
grateful to him, and knew that she de- 
served blame. 

8 


113 

When Clifford finally looked up he 
caught sight of a white face staring in at 
the doorway. He was altogether heart- 
broken that Miss Clairmont had rejected 
his suit, yet was nevertheless sufficiently 
inclined for mischief to be pleased with 
the tangle of misunderstanding which 
he saw ahead. The face vanished from 
the doorway almost before he had really 
seen it, and he did not mention the mat- 
ter to Felise. 

“Now, Miss Clairmont,” said he, rising, 
“ I will try to be myself again. But what 
is the most melancholy song you can 
sing ?” 




3P.A.IR, T "V“I. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

T HIS was the final evening of the 
Merediths* stay in Saintford, and 
Frank Layton was to give a small din- 
ner-party, succeeded by a general re- 
ception and ball. Thus, when Maurice 
descended from his room at six o’clock, 
he found that the house was decorated 
with flowers and that the ladies wore 
their diamonds. “You are all very 
magnificent,’’ said he. “ I had quite 
forgotten it was a party-night. — Luigi, 
will you go to my room and bring me 
a pair of gloves ?” 

“ That is Maurice to the life, Mrs. Mer- 
edith,’’ remarked Rosamond. “ I may 
tell him every day for two weeks that I 
wish him to remember a certain engage- 
ment: then finally am rewarded when 
the time arrives by the discovery that he 
is shut up for the night in some odious 
committee-room . ’ ’ 

“Rosamond dear,” returned Maurice 
blandly, “under the circumstances I re- 
ally think it ought to be proper for you to 
have two husbands, one of whom should 
have nothing to do save to remember 
dinner-parties and receptions, and make 
himself generally agreeable.” 

“ What have you been doing all day, 
Maurice? — Mrs. Meredith — will you be- 
lieve it ? — this is actually the first time I 
have seen him since yesterday.” 

“ That is not my fault, Rosamond, for 
I came down at one o’clock for the ex- 
press purpose of asking you to drive with 
me, and you had gone out yachting with 
Violet and Wilmot.” 

“I have a letter from papa,” said Ro- 
samond, “ and you may as well read it 
yourself, for it is filled with messages for 
you.” 

Maurice eagerly seized the letter, and 
advancing down the long flower-decked 
parlors, met his brother entering. He 
was in full evening-dress, with a tuberose 
in his button-hole, and was drawing on 
his gloves ; but although there was noth- 
ing picturesque or disheveled about him, 
1 14 


but quite the reverse, Maurice stared at 
him in dismay, for he perceived some- 
thing unusual and chilling in his ap- 
pearance. 

“How are you, Frank ?” said he, arrest- 
ing him. “What have you been doing 
all day ?” 

“ I have been in my room,” returned 
the other. “To tell the truth, I am not 
quite well.” 

“ I should think not,” exclaimed Mau- 
rice earnestly. “What is it? You look 
wretchedly.” He put his arm within his 
brother’s and led him into the study. 

Frank closed the door quietly behind 
them as they entered. “ I am ashamed 
that I am such a boy as to carry a signal 
of distress at my masthead,” he remark- 
ed coolly, with a faint smile flickering 
across his face. “ Since you have found 
me out, I may as well tell you at once 
that Miss Clairmont has accepted Clif- 
ford.” 

“ What infernal nonsense, Frank ! 
Who dared say such a thing?” 

“ ’Tis no hearsay,” rejoined Frank, 
with entire calmness. “I went to call 
on her at noon, and walked in without 
ringing, as I am in the habit of doing 
when I hear voices inside. Jack was — 
Never mind. It is their secret, but there 
was no mistaking the position of affairs. 
It seems to me a hurried courtship, yet 
she liked him from the first. Not once 
since he came with me from Newport has 
her manner been what it was before. I 
think it highly improbable that so sudden 
an engagement should be announced at 
present, but I can only be thankful that 
accident has given me the key to the 
problem which was torturing me.” 

Maurice groaned heavily as if in mor- 
tal pain, and sinking into a chair leaned 
his elbows on the table and buried his 
face in his hands. 

“At three o’clock,” continued Frank 
in the same cold, trained voice, “Clifford 
came to my room and asked if he could 
take my chestnut to ride to Bridgeford-- 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


the other horses were all in use. He ex- 
plained that he wanted to get Miss Clair- 
mont a bouquet. I told him of course to 
ride Max, but that he could find no such 
flowers as Powers could pick for him and 
arrange under his direction. * Thank you, 
old fellow !’ said he laughing oddly, ' but 
under the circumstances I should prefer 
to-day not to present your flowers to Miss 
Clairmont, for in so many other ways I 
am indebted to my enemy for aid and 
comfort, I am shamefaced at accepting 
any further favors.’ I assure you there 
was no mistaking either his words or his 
flushed, excited manner.” 

Maurice had kept silence, but he look- 
ed up now : the veins in his forehead 
were knotted and swollen, and he show- 
ed signs of some powerful emotion. 

Frank smoothed out the broad high 
brow with a touch as gentle as a wo- 
man’s. ‘‘Dear Maurice,” said he, ‘‘I 
love you for taking my misfortune so to 
heart, but you must not. I find myself 
stronger than I had thought: the first 
horror of it is over, and now, ‘being 
gone, I am a man again.’ ” 

Still, Maurice did not speak. Luigi 
came to the door and announced the ar- 
rival of guests, and, making a supreme 
effort, he wrenched himself from his 
chair and stood up. ‘‘Go into the par- 
lor, Frank,” he said in his usual voice. 
“ I must read this letter, but will follow 
you in three minutes.” 

Frank walked away slowly, while Mau- 
rice mechanically opened the sheet and 
read the four pages without mentally 
taking in a single word written there. 

Rosamond came in to look for him 
before he had finished. “ I was not cer- 
tain,” she exclaimed, laughing, “ but that 
you had forgotten all about the dinner 
again. Everybody has come, and all 
are down except Jack. What a man he 
is for being behindhand ! Papa always 
says he was born just half an hour too 
late ever to amount to anything.” 

Maurice burst out laughing. “ I think 
not,” said he — “ I think not.” 

‘‘What are you laughing at?” demand- 
ed Rosamond, unaware that she had said 
anything droll. “ I wish you could have 
seen Frank greet Miss Clairmont. What 


”5 

I manners he has ! Charles Lamb would 
have written an essay about them.” 

They were entering the parlors, and 
Maurice left Miss Clifford and went about 
speaking to the guests. Felise was sit- 
ting in the bay-window on the crimson 
sofa, and the rich color threw out the 
white and azure of her dress in such vivid 
contrast that he seemed to see nothing 
else, and his eyes felt dazzled as he walk- 
ed the length of the rooms toward her. 
He only bowed before her in his grand- 
est manner — he was too furiously angry 
with her to speak — and in return for her 
uplifted, deprecating glance he gave her 
a look which made her spirit quail with- 
in her : then took his stand by one of the 
pillars and watched her closely. Jack 
entered almost at the same moment that 
Maurice walked away, and sat down be- 
side her with his most successful air, and 
the deep blush and downcast eyes which 
greeted him were quite enough to vindi- 
cate Frank’s theory, unless one knew 
that the aching heart of this little girl 
was wildly questioning sense and mem- 
ory to discover the meaning of the angry 
gleam in Maurice’s eyes. Frank had 
himself arranged the seats of the guests 
at table, and Jack carried off Felise with 
a great flourish. 

Dinners at the cottage were always ju- 
diciously ordered and exquisitely served, 
and no one could find any fault to-night 
in either menu or service ; but still some- 
thing was lacking, and almost every one 
was conscious of the tedium of the long 
courses. Frank was never a great talk- 
er, but usually he had the art of putting 
his guests at their best and promoting 
conversation : to-night he exerted him- 
self more than usual, but his manner 
was grave and chilling. As for Maurice, 
he spoke not a word unless he was point- 
edly addressed, but looked straight be- 
fore him, as completely indifferent as if 
he had been a painted portrait. It hap- 
pened that in Secretary Clifford’s letter 
there had been some items of political 
news displeasing to his party, and Rosa- 
mond remarked to some one that Mr. 
Layton was quite put out about the nom- 
inations : accordingly, no one wondered 
at his gloom, and he was allowed to gaze 


n6 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


undisturbed into the pyramid of flowers 
which formed the central table-ornament. 

But a band was playing in the hall and 
covered the silences with music, and most 
of the party gossiped and prattled, buzz- 
ing airy flirtation and gay talk around 
the table. Jack Clifford was in the high- 
est spirits, although there could be no 
sensible reason for such elation, as the 
real truth of the situation was that he 
was a young man violently in love with 
a charming girl who was indifferent to 
him. Still, although to-morrow he ex- 
pected to be the most wretched of men, 
there was meanwhile a present which 
seemed to him half like success, since 
this buoyant-hearted young gentleman 
saw plainly that the two Laytons at least 
believed him to be engaged to Miss Clair- 
mont. Frank might carry off all the 
honors to-morrow, but he could at least 
make a glorious parade of them to-night ; 
so he forgot the immaterial fact of his 
sore defeat, and wholly exasperated every 
man at table by his wit and good-humor. 

When the ladies left the table both 
Maurice and Clifford sprang up to open 
the door for them. Jack returned to his 
seat, but the other, with a nod toward 
Frank, left the room by another door 
and entered the study, where he threw 
himself into a large arm-chair. The 
room was not lighted, for it was never 
open to company, and night had come 
in and covered it with a darkness and 
gloom which at first seemed to Maurice 
a pleasant repose to his fatigued spirit. 
For a time he remained immovable : his 
mood was both bitter and hopeless, and 
it was a comfort "to be free to look his 
anger in the face. But suddenly some 
thought smote him, and he sprang 
up aroused for action. Frank’s little 
King Charles, Ton-Ton, had crept into 
his lap. Maurice thrust his hand into 
an inner pocket and drew out a little 
pearl - colored glove — who knows with 
what wild folly kissed and cherished ? — 
and held it out to the spaniel. “ Go find 
her, Ton-Ton,” said he — ‘‘go find her.” 

The dog sniffed the glove, then bark- 
ed to be let into the passage. Maurice 
opened the door and followed him down 
the hall — not toward the drawing-room, 


but into a little alcove-parlor under the 
staircase. It was generally used by Luigi 
as his retiring-room, but to-night had 
been fitted up as a boudoir and hung 
with rose-colored chintzes and lighted by 
globe lights, now burning dimly. Maurice 
had tested the spaniel’s sagacity before, 
and followed him unhesitatingly into this 
pretty out-of-the-way nook. Ton -Ton 
was right: Miss Clairmont had chosen 
this place for her retirement until the 
ball opened. 

She looked up at Maurice timidly as 
he entered, then bending down caressed 
the dog, without finding courage to utter 
a single word. He looked at her stead- 
fastly, and she was by far too beautiful 
to-night to be regarded coldly. “ Child ! 
child!” said he, ‘‘why have you done 
this thing?” 

She lifted her face with a frightened 
air. ‘‘Violet went up stairs to direct her 
packing,” she returned with an air of 
deprecation, ‘‘and I pretended to go with 
her, but came here instead ; for indeed, 
Mr. Layton, I feel miserably tired.” 

He waved his hand imperiously, then 
sat down close beside her and spoke in 
the lowest voice close to her ear. His 
face worked with strong emotion : “ Did 
I give you up for this ? Did I go through 
that terrible struggle for this ? I thought 
I was sacrificing my own longing for you 
that you might have a better fate than I 
could give you. You cost me a terrible 
price, but for Frank’s sake I was able to 
pay it. Now you throw his happiness 
away. I could hate you for it!” 

She had turned to a deathly paleness, 
and stared at him dumbly with distend- 
ed eyes. 

‘‘How dared you?” he asked, looking 
at her with a face which grew every mo- 
ment sterner and more rigid. “ Did you 
wish to punish me ? Have you thought 
it so cruel that I lingered in your neigh- 
borhood that you wished to torture me 
thus ? Do you believe that I would have 
remained here a moment after that morn- 
ing unless I had been bound by the pres- 
ence of another to spend this weary in- 
terval in Saintford ? Had I had my own 
will, I should have gone long since far, 
far away, where I might have found 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


some chance of forgetting every scrap, 
every shred, of my memories of you.” 

‘‘I cannot understand you,” she fal- 
tered. 

“You have accepted Clifford,” return- 
ed Maurice with a glance of anger and 
scorn. 

“ Oh no,” she returned hurriedly : “how 
could you believe it ? I could not think 
of such a folly.” 

“Thank God ! thank God !” cried Mau- 
rice, falling on his knees and clasping his 
arms about her. “ Darling child, I loved 
you so — loved you so, it killed me to 
think you had given yourself to anybody 
else.” 

He had strained Felise to his breast, 
and her face was hidden from him. He 
leaned his head over her, and his lips 
touched her curls again and again. 
Great shivers ran through him and tears 
started to his eyes. If he felt happiness 
in this mad avowal, it was an agony of 
happiness. “I don’t need to have you 
tell me you love me, child,” he murmur- 
ed. “Ah, how my arms ached to clasp 
you that morning ! Oh, Felise, what 
have I not suffered these two weeks ! 
You don’t know — your little innocent 
heart could not guess — what imperish- 
able feelings you put into my heart. I 
could not rest. Time and time again I 
have written all through the night to 
keep you out of my mind. But now we 
will be happy — we will be happy : come 
what may, we will be happy — won’t we, 
dear ?” 

She moved uneasily within his arms. 

“What is it, my darling?” 

“Oh, Mr. Layton, this is so wrong! 
Oh, let me go.” 

He unfastened his strong clasp upon 
her, and she withdrew hastily from him, 
but their eyes met and could not part. 

“You love me,” said he with a smile 
that thrilled her. “You need not deny it 
— you love me ! There is but one heaven 
on earth for you, and that is in my arms.” 
The blood surged to her face and her 
eyes drooped. “Look up at me again,” 
he added, and she obeyed him. His face 
glowed with ardor and pleasure : there 
was such entire command in his glance 
that until he spoke again she experienced 


117 

the bliss of joyful irresponsibility : she 
did not analyze this state of semi-con- 
scious, languid happiness, but no magic 
potion could have made her more com- 
pletely the slave of his will. “You are 
mine,” said he again, but very gravely 
now. “You are mine. But close your 
eyes, Felise : they rob me of my senses,” 
he added with a trace of struggle in his 
voice. “Will you let me kiss you ? Think 
before you answer, child ; for, remember, 
once let me kiss you and I shall give you 
no power to recede. I dare not kiss you, 
then let you go again. Decide our des- 
tiny once for all, for once my lips on 
yours, you shall be my wife, though it 
costs us both our salvation.” 

Her color faded. “You are engaged 
to marry another woman,” she murmur- 
ed with a convulsive effort. “ We can be 
nothing to each other — never — never — 
never !” 

He restrained himself only by a vio- 
lent effort. She little knew what a reck- 
less, desperate soul looked at her hun- 
grily from his gleaming eyes. Primitive 
and lawless instincts almost controlled 
him, let him govern himself with a strong 
hand as he might. “ Let me tell you ex- 
actly how we stand,” he answered her in 
a voice full of pain he could not control. 
“ It does seem to me that man was never 
bound as I am bound, but at one word 
from you I am ready to break my bonds 
and be free. Frank loves you tenderly, 
but that is not all : the worst is that he 
has confided to me his sacredest inner- 
most feelings regarding you, I listening 
all the time to him with this traitor’s 
heart. To betray him, to win you away 
from him, would be the deed of a das- 
tard. But if you loved me, dear — I 
told him — it was last night I told him — 
that he was sure to win you at last — that 
I hoped to see you his wife. What those 
words cost me ! You see, child,” he went 
on in an agitated whisper, bending close 
over the form he dared not touch, “ I 
loved you from the very first, but I told 
myself it was but reading a charming 
page, but listening to an exquisite tune, 
until I found out that you loved me as 
well.” She shuddered and moved away 
from him. “ Until then,” he pursued ve- 


n8 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


hemently, “I had not once thought of 
wronging Frank ; but that knowledge 
woke up the demon within me. I could 
give up the woman I loved, but oh — my 
God! — how could I resign the woman 
who loved me?” 

He was silent for a moment, then con- 
tinued: ‘‘Besides Frank, there is Rosa- 
mond. She is worthy of any man’s wor- 
ship, but we were not made for each oth- 
er. To renounce her would be to re- 
nounce my public life. But that is noth- 
ing, less than nothing, to me now. Have 
we not our own lives to live ? Let us 
lose the world: it can but give us the 
chance to love each other the more. I 
cannot, like Frank, offer you a fortune. 
In truth, I am a poor man, for I have re- 
signed my profession : my political pros- 
pects will be hazarded, for my most pow- 
erful friends will be estranged, and I must 
go to work anew. But I am certain you 
will not feel unhappy in bearing for a 
time comparative poverty and obscurity 
with me. Do not be afraid of any trou- 
ble and confusion for yourself in engag- 
ing yourself to me. You shall know 
nothing of any annoyance. Just put 
your hand in mine, give me your lips 
once, and we will part for one month. 
Then I will return to claim you. There 
is my hand, Felise, waiting for yours.” 

She clenched her hands together in 
her lap : her face was buried among the 
sofa-pillows. 

‘‘Are you afraid of poverty with me ?” 
he asked. 

‘‘No, no.” 

‘‘I could make you so happy! You 
know little of the heart and soul in me 
which love for you has aroused. When 
I am once unshackled you will begin to 
have some idea of the Maurice Layton 
who loves you. I could make your life 
pass like a dream of enchantment, Fe- 
lise.” 

“ Do not tempt me,” she cried despair- 
ingly : ‘‘do not dare to tempt me!” 

‘‘God forbid that I should tempt you ! 
Have I tempted you ? Ask your heart 
if I am not losing my own cause because 
I want to do nothing, to compel you to 
nothing, which your own reason does not 
approve. I will let you take no step blind- 


ly, else you could have refused me noth- 
ing, Felise. But now that I have set all 
the circumstances of my position before 
you, I ask you to think of me. You can 
bless me — reflect how your love can bless 
me. I am lonely, bitterly lonely, with- 
out you. I love no one else in the wide 
world ; so I give you all my world for a 
plaything to throw away. Come to me 
— make me a new heaven and a new 
earth.” 

She sat up, but her face was so cover- 
ed with tears that she was blind. The 
pure, girlish face, so true and tender, 
yet so suffering, stabbed him with re- 
morse. His soul was an utter chaos : hon- 
or, truth, duty, all seemed to him fantas- 
tical restraints of weak, cold natures, for 
he was so smitten by this tragic passion 
of desire that there was but one Right 
for him in the world — to snatch to his 
own heart this precious flower of love. 
He was contemptuous of the risks he 
ran in gaining it : not to have this girl’s 
love would precipitate him into the mis- 
ery of a lifelong routine of every-day dis- 
appointments, with darker climaxes of 
deadly pain when remembering what 
he had almost gained, then lost. He 
tried to take her hand, but she repulsed 
him. 

‘‘You are torturing me,” said he 
hoarsely. 

She clasped her hands as children 
clasp them in prayer at their mother’s 
knee, and shaking away her tears she 
looked into his face with the touching 
faith and dependence of a little child. 

‘‘I could not help loving you,” she 
whispered, unable to command an au- 
dible voice, ‘‘but I can help ruining your 
life and — others’ lives.” 

“ You will ruin my life only by not giv- 
ing yourself to me. Say once, ‘ I love 
you, Maurice — I will be your wife.’ ” 

“ No, Mr. Layton : I shall not say it.” 

“You confess you love me. Does the 
man you love deserve this treatment of 
you ?” 

“ No,” she answered timidly, fearful 
of arousing either his anger or his ten- 
derness. “ I have been very foolish, very 
wrong. You may blame me for all.” 

“ Blame you, child ! What do you 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


wish me to do ?” He looked at her with 
an ironical smile. 

“Act as if you had never seen me,” 
she answered, shrinking from his gaze 
and speaking in a hopeless voice. 

“Ah, how easy! You have the tutor- 
ed mind of a woman, not the wild, fiery 
heart of a man. Act as if I had never 
seen you, Felise! Knowing you has 
cost me dear: ah, it has cost me all I 
once regarded with satisfaction — my self- 
respect, my love of my work, my con- 
viction of what I must make my life. 
You have put into my experience im- 
perishable desires which glow at fierce 
red heat, yet you bid me dismiss these 
raging wolves and go back unscarred to 
my old tranquillity of mind !” 

He turned sharply on his heel and 
paced the room, moved by sudden wrath 
against her. She knew little of his Strugs 
gle, or she must have felt a crueler pang, 
a deeper dismay. He was torn by strong 
passions, yet at the same time his mood 
verged on cynicism, and produced this 
discord of rage with his tenderness. Thjs 
was, then, the way a woman loved — lure a 
manTolhe point of forgetting every land- 
mark of duty and honor, then entrench 
herself safe within pious proprieties and 
bid him forget his longing for her ! — 
draw away his heart and put a thorn in 
its place, but tell him to feel contented 
and happy ! But when he turned and 
looked at her again his mood softened : 
his love made him at once too tender 
and too hard. “ Don’t condemn me to 
loneliness,” he said recklessly, “ or, worse 
still, to a careless marriage, unsanctified 
by one sacred hope. Forget conven- 
tional ideas for a moment: what you 
and I must do is to seize upon realities. 
Look me in the face.” She obeyed him. 
“Don’t you want to make me happy?” 
he asked with tenderness. 

“Oh,” cried poor Felise, stricken with 
bitter sorrow, “if it were only right I 
should so love to make you happy !” 

He took her hands in his and crushed 
them to his heart. “Then love me,” said 
he in an agonized voice — ■“ love me, love 
me ! Be my wife.” 

She drew them away from him slowly. 
“If you really love me,” she murmured. 


119 

trembling from head to foot, “ you will do 
what I ask you.” 

He nodded impatiently. 

“Control yourself and me. You are 
a strong man, while I — oh, I am so mis- 
erably weak ! It seems to me my heart 
will break. I cannot consent to what 
you ask. I appeal to your honor and 
generosity not to urge me any further.” 

The band, which had been for a while 
silent, now began to play again. Mau- 
rice had started abruptly at her words 
and turned away: then he came back 
and threw himself on his knees before 
her. H er words and manner had moved 
his better self. “I love you,” he said 
fervently, “and you love me, and I can 
think of nothing else. I know but one 
wish — to have you for my wife. Every- 
thing besides seems too remote for me to 
care for it.” 

Their full glances met. It was a sol- 
emn moment. She was so very young : 
life without this love seemed so horribly 
desolate. It was hard to put away this 
happiness of which her longing heart had 
caught a glimpse. “We will do our duty,” 
she said with a sob. 

“Duty? Duty, Felise, tells me to see 
you no more.” 

She rose as pale as death. “It will 
not always be so hard,” said she with 
angel tenderness toward the man whose 
misery showed so plainly in his face. “ I 
have heard that time does everything: 
perhaps you will forget me.” 

“ Perhaps so, child — when I am dead. 
I am not sure if even a wild love like 
mine goes into the grave. But, by Heav- 
en ! things between us are not ending in 
this way.” 

“ Hush : sit down. Ah, do not let any 
one see — I think Mr. Clifford is look- 
ing for me.” 

And it was indeed Clifford who peeped 
in at the doorway with* a fresh rose in his 
buttonhole. “Ah, Miss Clairmont,” he 
cried, “ they said you were up stairs, but 
my instinct led me safely to your feet. 
Do you hear that divine waltz of Strauss, 
and does it remind you of a promise ?” 

Felise rose. “I remember,” she said 
in almost her ordinary manner, “ that I 
was to dance the first Strauss waltz with 


120 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


you.” She turned to Maurice with a lit- 
tle timid questioning look. 

He too had risen, and now stood be- 
side her. 

‘‘Oh, don’t mind Maurice,” remarked 
Clifford, offering his arm. “ I dare say 
he has been boring you abominably : let 
him go read his blue-books.” 


CHAPTER XXII. 

It was an hour later when Maurice 
entered the parlors. When Felise left 
him he had gone blindly out of doors 
and stood silently and fixedly among the 
shadows like a man in too much pain 
either of body or mind to know where 
he was. A pair of lovers penetrated his 
retreat at last, and he mechanically re- 
traced his steps to the house. Rosamond 
met him in the hall and took his arm. 
‘‘You are cold,” she said to him with ten- 
der concern. “ You have been out in the 
dew and damp, and are chilled through.” 

Yet the only sign of the struggle through 
which he had passed was a loss of color 
in his face, the swollen veins about his 
temples and two haggard lines around 
his firmly-cut lips. He answered Rosa- 
mond with a peculiar deference which 
pleased her, but which might have borne 
a painful significance if she had guessed 
the self-condemnation which inspired it, 
and they went arm in arm into the crowd 
of people that filled the parlors. Rosa- 
mond thrilled anew with the pride of 
being thus first with Maurice. She had 
never felt more happy and secure in his 
affections than to-night. 

It was a gay party : in fact, no pains 
had been spared by either host or guests 
to have this final festivity of the summer 
a brilliant affair. Plenty of lights illu- 
mined the scene, and long mirrors gave 
back the fair festal picture of beautiful 
women in gala-dress. To Maurice there 
was as much reality in the scene as if he 
were looking at a flight of painted air- 
bubbles, half asleep the while. When 
he was addressed he replied in a cour- 
teous manner, and found no lack of 
words : once he was thrown by mere 
chance and against his will into prox- 


imity with Felise, and when Rosamond 
spoke to her and drew him into the con- 
versation, he even discovered that he 
could discuss ordinary subjects with her 
under Miss Clifford’s auspices. 

Mrs. Meredith stood at the head of 
the rooms, where she had received her 
nephew’s guests, and was enjoying her- 
self thoroughly, for something constantly 
occurred to impress her well-trained Eng- 
lish eyes and ears with a sense of the droll- 
ness of Americans and their manners, un- 
til one middle-aged gentleman, hat in 
hand and with a deprecating glance of 
inquiry over the rim of his eye-glasses, 
remarked to her, “ I have been in Eng- 
land. It is a fine country.” 

‘‘Yes?” returned Mrs. Meredith. 

‘‘But the damp atmosphere and per- 
petual fogs are detestable.” 

‘‘Ah !” 

“I admire your government. The 
queen is a cipher, but you have excel- 
lent statesmen.” 

‘‘Indeed!” 

“Nothing but their adroit state-craft 
could have saved the aristocracy so long ; 
but it is doomed. It is already rotten to 
the core, and tolerated merely because 
as a whole the nation is conservative if 
wisely governed, and prefers to wait pa- 
tiently for reform rather than to precipi- 
tate a revolution. There is no longer 
any working principle among the nobil- 
ity on account of their birth : they hold 
their own only by dint of good, steady, 
arduous work like common men.” 

“ How well you understand us !” said 
Mrs. Meredith in a sarcastic voice. 

He smiled: “Americans, madam, 
understand all nationalities, all govern- 
ments, on the principle that the greater 
must include the less.” 

Mrs. Meredith fanned herself violently, 
but not thinking of the best thing to say, 
rebuffed the next comer instead, an as- 
piring young man who considered every- 
thing English strictly good form. 

“Aw, Mrs. Meredith,” said he, stretch- 
ing his legs and looking at them admir- 
ingly — “Aw! you are very gay in the 
season — aw ! quite bewildering festivities, 
and all that sort of thing.” 

“ I do not go out a great deal.” 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


121 


“Aw ! I was there last year, you know. 
Awfully jolly times everywhere ! How 
fond you are of racing in England!” 

Mrs. Meredith drew her small figure 
to its fullest height. “ Sir,” she returned 
freezingly, “you mistake : I am not fond 
of racing in England.” 

“ Come, come, Aunt Agnes !” said 
Maurice, going up to her as the young 
man retired, “ don’t extinguish people in 
that way. Go and amuse yourself. You 
have done enough in receiving them : 
don’t make them the victims of your 
wrath.” 

“Oh, I am civil enough. The people 
are mostly dreadful, but I will do my 
duty by them, as Frank asked me to.” 

Violet was quiet to-night. Leslie Wil- 
mot had left Saintford for New York this 
very evening, for he was to sail the fol- 
lowing morning at ten o’clock. Their 
parting had been assured enough: in 
six weeks’ time Violet was to become his 
wife, and he had been eager to get home 
and conclude his arrangements, that he 
might be ready to receive her. Morton 
had been waiting for days“ impatiently for 
the departure of his rival, and to-night 
felt that the time had finally come to 
learn what feelings for him lurked be- 
neath the imperious glances and chilling 
smiles which Violet had yielded him of 
late. He had hung about her for an hour 
before he finally went up and addressed 
her. She spoke very little in answer to 
his remarks, but twice an almost imper- 
ceptible smile played about her lips, then 
died away into a look which was almost 
repellent ; but her large dark eyes were 
fixed upon him with interest. 

“ To-morrow morning I bid you good- 
bye,” she said to him finally. “Years 
may pass before we meet again.” 

He started violently. “ That must not 
be,” he exclaimed vehemently, although 
under his breath. “ I want to speak to 
you. Come out — the night is lovely — 
come out for half an hour: there is so 
much to be settled before you go away 
to-morrow.” 

She smiled again with a mysterious air, 
rose and walked beside him, not touch- 
ing his arm, but following him through 
the parlors, across the hall, over the pi- 


azza and down the steps to the terrace. 
She was richly dressed, but her silken 
skirts trailed carelessly across grass and 
gravel until they reached the summer- 
house. They had frequently been there 
before, and Morton felt that for her to 
consent to come with him to-night was 
the happiest augury for all his hopes. 

The night was serene, but not over 
warm. Myriads of stars shone brilliant- 
ly, but there was no moon, and the dusk 
seemed almost oppressive here. In other 
parts of the ground hung Chinese lan- 
terns : this spot was quite unbrighten- 
ed, and seemed silent and deserted — 
the more so that occasionally a strain of 
music, louder than the rest, would come 
to their ears fraught with wild and melan- 
choly inspiration, then sink away again 
into utter silence. 

“The summer is over, Violet,” said 
Morton. “ Do you remember what you 
once promised me here when these weeks 
should have passed ?” 

“No,” she answered in a clear voice, 
“I remember nothing. What did I 
promise ?” 

“ When I told you the sole condition 
on which I dared remain in Saintford, 
you listened and yet bade me stay. Af- 
terward — here, Violet — The memory 
of it belongs to my life-blood : surely you 
have not forgotten.” 

“Mr. Morton,” she said in a sarcastic 
voice, “I have no memory for anything 
which took place before your proposal of 
marriage to Miss Clairmont.” 

“I have long since explained that piece 
of folly to you,” he answered impatiently. 
“ I was angry, maddened, desperate, at 
that time. Don’t continue to blame me 
for what was, after all, the highest trib- 
ute I could pay to your power over me. 
I plunged into that love-affair as I might 
have plunged into the ocean, to drown the 
care which pursued me.” 

“I remember a pretty simile of Shake- 
speare’s,” retorted Violet, laughing, 
“about love as deep and boundless as 
the sea. But I am not so deluded as to 
accept a suicide of that particular degree 
as any especial tribute to my power over 
you. If she had accepted you, what then ? 
A happy drowning, indeed!” 


122 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


“ She would never have accepted me,” 
struck in Morton with anger. “Oh, Vio- 
let, it is cruel of you to question my love 
for you after these twelve years. Just 
for one moment let your mind revert to 
those old times at the Grange, when you 
used to steal out to me in the garden 
at night and give me your warm, sweet 
kisses. You loved me then : I loved 
you — not so well as I do now, but I 
loved you better than I did my life.” 

“I remember those evenings,” said 
she in a cruel voice. “The emotion of 
those days seems far off and vague — 
like something, in fact, that took place 
before the Deluge: still, I remember it 
all. Many times since I have paused in 
the garden or the shrubberies and said 
to myself, ‘This was the place where 
Harry told me so-and-so.’ You remem- 
ber the seat in the summer-house, and 
the railing where we leaned and you 
carved my name ? Once after an ab- 
sence of a year or two, when I went 
back and found the woodwork all fresh- 
ened and restored, I felt absolutely pa- 
thetic over such desecration. I often 
sicken with weariness at the narrow- 
ness of my mental estate, yet give me, 
at least, the credit of making the most 
of the poor little shreds and patches of 
feeling, hope and romance gathered in 
my early youth.” 

“Your tone hurts me, Violet.” 

“I am a profoundly-experienced wo- 
man : don’t expect me to talk like the 
school -girl I was once.” 

“Were you glad to meet me again this 
summer?” he demanded. 

“Yes, I was glad. I had so often heard 
of you : I had often told myself that I 
should like to revive my recollections of 
my old friend, my tutor.” 

“Your lover — did you not call me your 
lover when you remembered me ?” 

“You have no idea of women’s tenaci- 
ty of remembrance when you ask that. 
Why not be candid? This is the last 
talk we shall have in all our lives. I 
have consoled myself at times for the 
disappointments, the humiliations, of my 
life by the thought that once I was young 
enough, good enough, true enough, to 
love and be wildly loved. At that time 


I used to tell you every thought of my 
heart, and there was not one to blush at. 
And what a heart I had! The magic 
and beauty of the world had taken pos- 
session of me. I loved God ; I wanted 
to be worthy of heaven ; my heart sang 
psalms as I looked up to the stars when 
they shone pure and bright, just as they 
shine to-night. I used to tell you every- 
thing, and you too felt the charm of puri- 
ty and faith and hope. Although we were 
so young, we were very serious. Perhaps 
youth always has holier dreams than ma- 
turity. When I think of the castles we 
used to build — ” 

He caught her hand. “They may all 
come true now,” said he warmly. “Let 
us go back to the old hearts, the old 
wishes, the old loves. I am a trifle 
wiser: I do not think I am worse, or, 
if that early faith is a little clouded, in 
loving you, in living beside you, I could 
regain it all.” 

Violet raised her head. Her pale face, 
earnest and agitated, was clear before 
him now even in the dusky, mysterious 
gloom of the arbor. She left her hands 
in his and looked at him steadfastly. 
“ How little you know me !” she ex- 
claimed in a curious tone. “ Do you re- 
member,” she went on in a low hurried 
voice, “the evening before we went to 
Saratoga ?” 

“ I remember it well. I dined with 
you, and after you had gone into the 
parlor something occurred — just a few 
words from your cousin — to disgust me 
with myself! I have never blamed him : 
under the same circumstances I should 
have spoken as he did. The state of 
mind which I endured until I saw you 
again was the key to whatever was mys- 
terious in my conduct.” 

She did not seem to listen to him. 
“That night,” she went on the moment 
he paused, “ all my wishes were to see 
you. Something seemed shattered with- 
in me : I longed to be assured of a love 
tender and true which I could at once 
accept and lean on to the end. In my 
thoughts that night, and indeed until I 
met you on my return, I had settled my 
whole future. After all — so I told my- 
self — no one could love me like you. 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


123 


Perhaps, too, I felt the meaning of that 
old couplet — 

Nous revenons, nous revenons toujours 

A nos premiers amours. 

I thought of you kindly enough at that 
time, Harry. I was ready to say good- 
bye to my past life — to give up my fam- 
ily. I even planned the existence two 
people could lead who loved each other, 
and found the world well lost for love. 
Indeed, my fancies for those few days 
had all the delirium of young, inexpe- 
rienced, absurdly-hopeful hearts. I felt 
such a longing for rest — for something 
settled beyond any caprice of my own 
to change or unfix ! But why too clear- 
ly expose my own weakness to the man 
who, even in the hours when I was think- 
ing of him, was offering his love to an- 
other ?” 

She had continued to look him fixedly 
in the face, with her hands clasped in 
his, until her final words, when she rose, 
suddenly flinging his hands from her with 
a gesture of contemptuous scorn. 

His heart for a few moments had been 
full of intense and almost unexpected 
happiness : his misgivings had vanished. 
At this sudden reverse he could not re- 
frain from uttering a cry. 

“I should expect that from you,” she 
said — “a nerveless, inarticulate moan 
like a woman’s. You do not deserve to 
be a man, weak, cowardly as you are. At 
the first word from Maurice you gave me 
up. Had you loved me, you would have 
dared him or any other to claim one iota 
of power to separate you from me. No, 
not a word,” she went on vehemently, 
still standing apart from him. “ I have 
listened to enough of your pleadings, your 
extenuations, your confessions, these past 
weeks. I had thought you in the past a 
man on whom I could rely — stronger, 
harder, more absolute in serene and 
steadfast will, than myself. I had been 
almost untrue to a heart that was at least 
single and unchangeable in its devotion 
to me. I was punished as I deserved. 
At another womah’s first smile you left 
me. The moment you made that shame- 
ful confession you settled my fate in life 
for me.” 

He had recovered from his first hu- 


miliation, and had advanced toward her, 
and now looked her steadily in the face. 
“Perhaps,” said he slowly, “I am weak. 
I have wondered of late about my state 
of mind : perhaps it is that I am weak. 
Certain it is that you have made me what 
I am. Tell me, if you will, what is your 
fate in life to be?” 

“I am to marry Leslie Wilmot before 
the- end of October,” she replied calmly. 

“An excellent marriage !” remarked 
Morton. “After that announcement any- 
thing that I could say would be in bad 
taste. I will no longer cause you to stig- 
matise as weakness any cries from my 
heart. Let us go in. All my words, it 
seems, were too tardy : you might have 
been dancing all this time. Let us go 
in.” 

In truth, her keen words, supplement- 
ed by her announcement of her speedy 
marriage, had not so deeply wounded 
Morton, after all, but that he could re- 
assert his pride and his self-control. 

The looks they exchanged were strange. 

“After all,” Violet exclaimed involun- 
tarily, “you have not loved me, then ?” 

Morton shuddered. “Yes,” said he 
with some effort, “ I have loved you. I 
have not yet thought of that. It only oc- 
curs to me that I have long subsisted on 
illusions. Twelve years is a long time to 
waste on one thought, and that the hope 
of winning a woman.” 

“Good-bye!” observed Violet after a 
moment’s pause. “ I dare say we shall 
meet again. Nothing is finished until we 
die, and most lives are mere kaleido- 
scopes where the same characters are 
endlessly reproduced under new combi- 
nations. Good-bye !” 

Morton bowed in silence, and stood 
watching her as she walked down the 
garden-path toward the house, her tall 
slender figure sharply defined against 
the lights that illuminated terrace and 
lawn. 

When she vanished he raised his hands 
above his head. “O Heaven !” he cried 
with a weary air, then swung his arms 
and rubbed his forehead as if half para- 
lyzed by a heavy sleep from which he 
could not arouse himself. “ Let me go 
back,” said he to himself after a time: 


124 


LOVE IN IDLENESS . 


“let me see if I have an interest in life.” 
And he too left the summer-house and 
took the path which Violet had lately 
trodden. 

He met Maurice on the terrace. “ Oh, 
Morton,” exclaimed the latter, “I wished 
to speak to you. You remember a cer- 
tain conversation when I addressed you 
with more freedom than is my wont. I 
ask your pardon for assuming to dictate 
to you : it must have seemed that I pre- 
tended to regard both your motives and 
actions from a height you had not at- 
tained to.” 

“I never questioned your authority, 
Mr. Layton,” Morton returned in a dull, 
stupefied manner. “I was, I presume, 
acting the part of a fool. I really do not 
remember.” 

“What I wished to gain was your 
forgiveness,” said Maurice with a short 
laugh. “ My words have often returned 
upon my mind of late. What right had 
I to judge others severely ?” 

“Oh, I forgive you willingly enough,” 
rejoined Morton. “You too are leaving 
Saintford to-morrow ?” 

“ Yes, I take Miss Clifford back to New- 
port. And what becomes of you ? Shall 
you stay on here ?” 

“ I don’t know,” answered Morton, and 
passed on, but in another moment some 
one else asked him the same question. 
It was Mrs. Dury, the mother of the lit- 
tle girl whom he had taken a strong fan- 
cy to of late. “Are you going to leave 
Saintford, Mr. Morton ?” she asked him 
as he passed her. 

“Not yet,” he replied, and paused by 
her side. It was as well to talk to her as 
to another, he told himself ; and Violet 
Meredith saw him come in and attach 
himself to the widow with a half-mock- 
ing smile on her face. 

Frank Layton had not spoken to Fe- 
lise since her first arrival before dinner, 
but he had looked at her frequently, and 
again and again she had caught his deep, 
attentive, inquiring look. His love was 
too tender to allow of his regrets being 
those only of the disappointment of a 
wild, impetuous, impotent longing. He 
told himself again and again that if she 
were happy he could bear his own trou- 


bles ; but she did not seem to him happy 
to-night. Even when she was dancing 
he observed her increasing pallor, the 
lustreless look of her eyes, the fixed, im- 
mobile expression of her lips ; and when 
the evening was but half over he went 
up to her. “Are you not too tired to 
dance any more ?” he asked her. “ You 
have as yet paid me no attention. Come 
and sit down in a corner with me.” 

He met her eyes, and smiled reassur- 
ingly into her face. His heart throbbed 
with pity and with love for her. 

“ I am very tired,” she confessed, and 
her eyes drooped, but not until he had 
caught sight of sudden tears. 

Her mood was quite enigmatical to 
him. He looked about for Clifford, and 
saw him talking to his cousin Rosamond. 
“ Would you like to have Clifford come ?” 
Frank asked with the kindest voice: “I 
won’t keep him away.” 

“Oh,” cried Felise, “I do not care. I 
am so very tired. If you don’t mind, 
Mr. Layton, will you take me some- 
where and sit down and talk to me a 
little while?” 

He led her into the library and sat down 
by her side, but he did not talk much. 
Now and then he alluded to the journey 
on which they were to set out on the 
morrow. To be sure, these three weeks 
of pleasant travel, looked forward to so 
long, seemed now to Frank a needless 
cruelty of fate — one of those ironic ex- 
periences which come to us all when the 
object of our ceaseless desire is granted 
under conditions which make it hateful. 
Yet, while he sat by her he was telling 
himself — no matter what words he was 
uttering — that, after all, he was learning 
something of Felise that Jack with all his 
good-fortune was not to know : he must 
comfort himself, then, with the wisdom 
which comes from pain and loss — the 
high belief in the goodness and sweet- 
ness of this little girl, which was to be 
his sole possession in her. 

She looked up and saw his strong, 
clear gaze upon her. “ Oh, you are so 
good to me !” she exclaimed with a half 
sob, and raised his hand and kissed it. 

“ I want to be good to you, dear child,” 
said he, “ and it is generous in you to pity 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


I2 5 


me. But there is Jack : I will resign my 
place to him. Poor fellow ! he has got a 
long, lonely journey before him.”* 

“A long, lonely journey!” cried Clif- 
ford, overhearing Frank’s words as he 
started up suddenly from the side of Miss 
Clairmont. ‘‘Where to, my good fellow ?” 

“ To the White Mountains, I suppose,” 
rejoined Frank. ‘‘It seems a pity, since 
we are breaking up, that we must all go 
different ways. But I dare say you will 
overtake us at Lake George.” 

The partings came next morning. Mau- 
rice had not slept, but had watched the 
last stars fade out of the paling sky, and 
seen the rose-blushed horizon in the west 
answer the first streaks of gold in the 
east. His parting words to Felise were, 
‘‘And shall I then see you no more ?” 

She looked up at him and answered 
calmly, ‘‘After a time.” 

‘‘One would think,” observed Miss 
Clifford, ‘‘that there was really some- 
thing particular about this parting, when 
you know, Maurice, that I have invited 
Miss Clairmont to spend Christmas at 
Oaklands.” 

‘‘But these breakings-up are painful,” 
said Jack : ‘‘we shall never all come to- 
gether again, and have the same happy 
times over. Some of us will be married, 
some will be suffering from the very 
sweetness of these same joyous days 
in Saintford : all of us will be older, and 
that means that instead of accepting the 
present we shall be embittering our hearts 
with recollections of the past.” 

Jack was a little sorrowful to-day, and 
his dejection caused him to yield more 
meekly than was his wont to the claims 
of general society upon him. He even 
suffered himself to be made useful by 
Mrs. Meredith, who encumbered him with 
all her light luggage, which consisted of 
a variety of wraps of every degree jpf 
thickness to suit the caprice of a mer- 
cury supposed capable of ranging be- 
tween zero and summer-heat, a camp- 
stool, a cushion, half a dozen novels, all 
the magazines and an opera-glass. ‘‘In 
fact,” Jack whispered to Felise, ‘‘I have 
all the miseries of a married man to en- 
dure, without any of the alleviations of 
the position.” 


Luigi and a maid were also in attend 
ance, but they were heavily burdened 
with dressing-cases, leather bags and 
traveling-rugs. In truth, Frank Layton 
in setting out did not expect much from 
his journey except an opportunity to per- 
fect himself in certain traits which are 
supposed to have been invented that tor- 
ture here may be rewarded by bliss here- 
after. He had had no conversation with 
his brother since their talk before dinner 
on- the day previous. Maurice had not 
been quite strong enough to correct his 
brother’s error. ‘‘After all,” he said to 
himself at the sight of Frank’s pale face, 
‘‘he might bear a few more hours of dis- 
comfort now, since the promised land is 
before him.” 

The evening in New York passed 
heavily enough to the travelers : the la- 
dies found excuses for seeking their rooms 
at an early hour, and Frank and Clifford 
were left to amuse themselves as best they 
might until bedtime. 

‘‘Let’s go out,” said Jack: “no one 
can sleep to-night, it is so infernally hot ;” 
and they left the hotel, and walking along 
the upper side of Union Square, turned 
presently into Broadway. The thorough- 
fare was almost deserted, and a late moon 
was shining faintly in the east : now and 
then the voice of a street-singer broke 
the silence, but otherwise the great city 
was in outward repose. 

Frank was smoking, and Jack, per- 
haps requiring consolation to-night, was 
also puffing away at a cigar. Neither of 
them spoke for a time. 

“ How dull we are !” remarked Jack. 

“ Silence is not dull necessarily : silence 
under the stars and with music in our 
ears is most brilliant. That air is Ros- 
sini’s. I sometimes believe that no one 
else has put such lovely pure thoughts 
into sound. Who is your favorite com- 
poser, Jack ?” 

“ I haven’t an idea so long as he is an 
Italian. I have small fondness for Ger- 
man music.” 

“ It is melody you like, then — not har- 
mony. I love both German and Italian 
music, but I try to do battle for neither, 
for I will not be a partisan, and love one 
at the other’s expense. It is difficult. 


126 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


almost impossible, to make empirical 
rules for perception in art, but at times 
it seems to me that art is merely an out- 
let for our instincts. As a child nothing 
exalted and inspired me like church 
music : we had an organ at home, and I 
used to grope after certain chords which 
filled me with a sort of ecstatic terror to 
hear, and I looked about me fearfully, 
thinking that they must bring the angels 
down. Then as a youth, until I was 
long past your age, I was hungry for a 
certain overflowing of passionate individ- 
ual feeling in music, such as Rossini, Bel- 
lini and Verdi seemed to me masters of ; 
but now, if I desire to be soothed, I de- 
mand something wider in ^.sympathies, 
and love that sea of infinite harmonies 
where all humanity can enter, and of 
which Mozart and Beethoven are cre- 
ators.” 

‘‘I wish,” said Jack with a comic ges- 
ture of despair — ‘‘I wish I could make 
some aesthetic or critical remarks in re- 
turn. But the truth is, that although I 
regard the art as divine, I can think of 
nothing to say about it to-night, for my 
mind is on lesser things. I want to tell 
you something that may possibly interest 
you.” 

Frank cursed his mishap in being 
abroad with Clifford and a victim to his 
confidence : he had been talking for the 
sole purpose of taking up the time and 
preventing personal remarks. “ It can’t 
be,” he groaned mentally, “that this in- 
effable coxcomb is to pour his raptures 
into my ears !” But aloud he said, bland- 
ly, “ Excuse me for boring you, and let 
me hear your story at once ; but allow 
me to say that I think I can predict it 
beforehand.” 

“Can you, indeed?” laughed Clifford. 
“ Let us go in here and get some claret- 
and-soda.” And entering a restaurant 
they took their places in a quiet corner. 
“So you really think you can predict 
what I am going to tell you ? You fan- 
cy, Frank, that I have the honor to be 
engaged to Miss Clairmont?” 

“I have no doubt of it,” returned 
Frank, very gravely, but without win- 
cing. 

“It is not the case,” said Jack, drop- 


ping his eyes. “I could not resist the 
pleasure of being envied by you for a 
few hours, but the truth is that she cares 
nothing for me, and that I am at present 
enduring a heartache withput any chance 
of visiting a similar one on her.” 

Frank found it more difficult to bear 
his joy in silence than his pain, but he 
merely nodded and said nothing. “I 
know,” pursued Jack, “that I have taken 
a weight off your soul. While you went 
on talking like a book, I had a great mind 
to let you proceed on your journey with- 
out setting you right in your calculations, 
just to see how long you would believe 
in my good luck ; but, on my word, I felt 
sorry for the ladies under your charge, 
and knowing what it has been that has 
prevented you from making yourself in 
the least degree pleasant for the past 
twenty-four hours, I have sacrificed my- 
self for everybody’s good. Be assured 
of one thing, old fellow ! — it is not my 
fault if I do not deserve your jealousy.” 

“ I have not the slightest doubt of that. 
Were I not so confoundedly happy at 
discovering my stupid mistake, I have it 
in my heart to pity you for being so much 
less well off than I gave you credit for 
being. Not but what I wondered at her 
choice, though !” 

“ Confound your impudence !” exclaim- 
ed Jack. “ On my word, I long to fight a 
duel with you. I wonder,” he continued 
sentimentally, for he was still of the age 
when emotions were interesting phenom- 
ena to him — “ I wonder how long these 
regrets will haunt me ? I am afraid she 
is not one of those whom men forget 
easily, for there is something about her 
tones, about her little French tricks of 
manner, that keep me awake at night. 
She is like a jasmine flower in my mem- 
ory.” He met Frank’s eyes, where there 
lurked a glimmer of amusement. “Look 
here !” pursued Jack in a diri’erent tone, 
“ you must be quiet : subdue that triumph 
in your mien. I dare say that by a week 
from now you will be in my plight.” 

“Very likely,” remarked that quiet 
gentleman, who did not care to discuss 
his chances. 

“The women must look to their hearts 
for the next six months,” went on Jack, 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


127 


"for a thousand victories will but half 
atone for this defeat. After all, where is 
the use of marrying? Wherever I go 
I always have a good time, and here 
and there about the world are dear little 
hearts throbbing kindly for me under the 
laces. I have had a good many loves : 
I have enjoyed a playtime with them, 
and parted from them without regret. I 
love pretty, wicked, little glancing feet, 
soft white hands, wet, red lips with kisses 
on them. Flirting with a pretty woman 
is like a bee’s sipping honey from a flow- 
er : I get the sweetness — what do I care 
for the flower ?/ And if one cannot get 
the sweetness, a kiss refrained from is 
dearer to the heart than a kiss bestow- 
ed : nothing so perfect as unrealized 
bliss.” 

Frank took out his watch. " Quarter 
to twelve !” said he. "How much more 
claret-and-soda are you going to drink, 
Clifford? You will drown your pretty 
sentiments.” 

"Sentiments!” retorted Jack with dis- 
dain. "Much you know about my feel- 
ings !” 

"Are you so hard hit, then?” 

" I am not altogether the feather-head- 
ed fool you think me,” said Clifford, and 
buried his face in his hands. It was a 
rather awkward position for Frank, who 
could not, as men are constituted, feel 
either sympathetic or consolatory just 
then, but he placed his hand on Jack’s 
shoulder, and took it kindly when it was 
shaken off. The young fellow put his 
weakness behind him presently, and the 
two rose, paid their reckoning and pass- 
ed out. 

" I wish,” observed Jack, his good spir- 
its reasserting themselves, " that I could 
talk about Rossini, etc. Oh, shouldn’t I 
love to bore you !” 

After that the two were excellent com- 
pany all the way back to the hotel. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

Now that Felise had left Saintford be- 
hind her, one resolution governed her 
heart and mind, and taught her not to 
venture to exaggerate the sweetness and 


worth of those vanished summer days. 
She said to herself very often, " Mr. Lay- 
ton has gone back to his old life, which 
is better for him than anything I could 
have given him in its place. I have done 
harm enough : let me undo it if I can.” 
For his love — for that supreme emotion 
he had from her first meeting with him 
aroused in her heart, which might have 
imparted a sublime meaning to the faint- 
est stirring of her soul’s needs, exalting 
commonplace existence into rapture — 
she mijst have made him pay too heavy 
a price to allow their mutual happiness 
to become, even to themselves, an un- 
mixed good. She was capable of some 
self - sacrifice, and had turned her back 
upon what seemed to her longing spirit 
heaven, to tread a dark, chilly road alone. 
Yet what matter, she thought, if she suf- 
fered, since he could go on nobly per- 
forming his life’s work, faithful to the high 
demands he was on all sides pledged to 
fulfill ? Not even the highest love is love’s 
justification if gained at any expense of 
honor, truth, right and a lofty strength 
which results only from courage, obedi- 
ence and self-control. 

Felise loved Maurice too dearly not to 
reject any sullied bliss for him. She told 
herself now-a-days, too, that she was to 
marry Frank. She had not said it yet 
in words to him, nor answered his impe- 
rious questionings ; but he had not for- 
gotten the pressure of her timid lips upon 
his hand. He knew that she was half 
ill, that she needed a long interval of 
rest ; and her wants were sacred to him 
because they were her wants. He did 
not ask why she was so weary, nor 
whence that brooding melancholy came 
that looked at him from her eyes. 

But one night, when she was with him 
on Lake George watching the sunlight 
^vanish from the hills and the shades 
creep over the dreaming forests, she sud- 
denly granted an end to all his long tor- 
turing doubts, his enigmatical dilemmas. 
He had put his hand over hers as it lay 
on the edge of the boat. What he had 
said was nothing but what she had long 
known. He did not expect an answer 
then, yet while he looked at her, her 
hand beneath his stirred gently and 


128 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


turned upward for him to clasp it. For 
a moment he did not even then believe 
in his own happiness, and gazed wonder- 
ingly into her suddenly downcast face. 
Each of them heard distinctly the late 
note of a bird break abruptly into song 
from the thickets on the bank : then their 
glances met with the tremulous joy of two 
children who have strayed far away, yet 
at last come upon each other in the wil- 
derness. Frank understood all his rap- 
ture then, but who shall tell just how he 
began to understand it ? 

They drifted about in the rapidly-in- 
creasing dusk until the moon came up, 
and it was not until Felise shivered and 
begged him to find her shawl that he 
realized how late it had grown. What 
a pleasant thing it was to be engaged ! 
he told himself as with a demure silence 
between them he rowed back to the shore. 
A wonderful experience, indeed ! How 
full of indefinable pleasures ! — momen- 
tary meetings of finger-tips ; half glances ; 
unfinished phrases more eloquent than 
rounded periods ; timid efforts to make 
it seem easy and natural to endure an 
entirely new state of affairs ; one’s Chris- 
tian name spoken softly with rising 
blushes ; wondering, beautiful smiles at 
his ecstasy of gratitude; exquisite shy- 
ness after a long sweet caress, which 
reminded him of his boyhood when he 
had once tamed a fawn — so timid a crea- 
ture that the wind in the trees, the flicker 
of light and shadow in the wood, fright- 
ened it, and when at times, with cunning 
devices, he would entice his pet to him 
and put his arm about it, he was conscious 
of a sort of cruelty, for its heart beat 
painfully — with the same startled throbs 
as this dear heart just now upon his 
breast — and its large, pathetic eyes were 
full of terror. 

When Frank led Felise back to the 
house and into the presence of his aunt 
and cousin, although they greeted the 
young girl warmly as Frank’s future wife, 
they betrayed little surprise — they had 
expected it so long, they affirmed : they 
had been so certain of this result that it 
was a little like the last chapter in a 
novel, which, although essential to the 
coherence of the story, is at best a trifle 


tedious, since one has predicted it all 
along. 

“Although, Frank,” observed Violet, 
“sometimes you have looked miserable 
enough. You have had plenty of ad- 
versity to make the gods watch your 
struggles with some admiration.” 

“How have I looked when I was mis- 
erable — under the Clifford regime, for in- 
stance ?” asked Frank. 

“As if you had on a pair of tight boots,” 
returned Violet. 

“ By the by, Felise,” said Frank, cross- 
ing over and sitting down beside her, “ I 
must telegraph to Jack.” 

“Telegraph to Mr. Clifford? What 
for?” 

“Oh, I promised to let him hear our 
news : besides, I am impatient to be con- 
gratulated. In fact, I cannot realize but 
that the whole world has experienced a 
sort of joyful earthquake to-night, and 
that my friends will all understand it.” 

In fact, Frank was happy enough. Al- 
though he was not over-young, this new 
world of thought and sensation had re- 
newed for him something better than the 
happiness of youth : fewer of his powers 
were latent than at twenty-five, and per- 
fected happiness was on a basis of wider 
insight and fuller conditions. As for Fe- 
lise, she felt very humble, very grateful 
to Frank, and very glad to be at rest, for 
she did feel perfectly at rest. She had 
dreaded at first to yield herself to this 
lover whom she knew to be, even though 
so infinitely tender, as strong and master- 
ful in asserting his rights over her future 
as he was gentle in claiming them. It 
had been pain and terror to grant him 
that first caress, but that was over now : 
a woman’s fate is fixed not by the love 
she gives, but by the love she accepts. 
When he had once taken her in his arms 
and kissed her, she realized absolutely 
that a great gulf divided her from her 
past — that she must not once look back. 
It was better so. She wished in her fool- 
ish girlish heart — and whispered to Frank 
too — that he were not so rich, not so 
capable of opening a dazzling vista of 
prosperity and brightness before her — 
that fate had granted her the inestimable 
boon of making some sacrifices in order 


LOVE IN IDLENESS . 


129 


to deserve the priceless blessing of a love 
like his. Frank had found no fault with 
her romantic wishes, but was a trifle wiser 
than the tremulous, wet-eyed, flushed lit- 
tle girl who clung to him so timidly and 
humbly. 

“Tell me, Felise,” demanded Mrs. 
Meredith, “are you going to be a good 
wife to Frank?” She had been watch- 
ing the young girl as her nephew leaned 
down toward her over the back of her 
chair. 

Felise started at the question, and look- 
ed at her lover, who laughed slightly, with 
the air of a man who had long since mas- 
tered the subject. “I will try,” returned 
Felise gravely. 

“Frank deserves a good wife,” re- 
marked Mrs. Meredith, with a scruti- 
nizing glance at the young rose-flushed 
face. 

“ I think,” answered Felise, putting her 
hands to her face, “ that nobody in all the 
wide, wide world knows how good he is 
as well as I do. I will study how to de- 
serve him.” 

Frank patted her bent head, and ob- 
served gayly that he wanted her to grow 
no better, since in that case he must sit 
up o’ nights studying how to qualify 
himself for her ; and then he asked for 
his letters, which ought to have come in 
while he was on the lake. “None from 
Maurice ?” said he, looking over the mail 
which Luigi brought him. “ What ails 
the fellow ? He has not written since 
we broke up at Saintford. But here is 
an envelope in Morton’s handwriting : 
aren’t you a little curious to hear what 
he is doing without you, Violet ?” 

“ Making love to Mrs. Dury,” predict- 
ed Violet ; and Frank, reading his letter, 
shouted with laughter at the accuracy of 
her prophecy. The letter covered but a 
half page, which, after perusal, he passed 
to Felise. “Great news !” said he : “Mor- 
ton is engaged, and I think, so far as un- 
expectedness is concerned, his announce- 
ment dwarfs mine into insignificance.” 

“You surely do not mean — ” 

“That Harry Morton is engaged to 
Mrs. Dury ? I do.” Frank laughed 
again, then grew serious : “ Poor fellow ! 
But I am glad he has done it. She hon- 
9 


estly liked him from the outset, and her 
little girl' is an angel. And I fancy he 
needed an angel of consolation, Violet.” 

“ He seems,” returned Miss Meredith, 
with a dulled voice and a haughty look, 
“to have rested his claims of salvation 
on loving much and — many.” 

“His hopes were extravagant,” return- 
ed Frank, “and we may pity him for an 
equal extravagance of disappointment. 
He is caught at the rebound, and in ev- 
ery rebound there is a large proportion 
of the original impulse. — I wonder, Fe- 
lise, if he will stay in Saintford, so that 
we may have his happiness before our 
eyes ?” 

“It is all very droll,” remarked Mrs. 
Meredith. “ But one thing is certain ; 
he will take life in a different way now 
from what he used to do. He will find 
it a pleasant sort of place to eat, sleep 
and lounge in. He will write no more 
poetry, and I doubt too if he will publish 
any more novels.”* 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

One evening late in September, Miss 
Clifford entered the drawing-room dress- 
ed for dinner, and found her engaged 
husband, Maurice Layton, whom she 
had supposed to be in the study with 
her father, pacing restlessly to and fro 
with a haggard face. He put a chair for 
her before the open fire, then resumed 
his walk, staring abstractedly from each 
window as he neared it, as if he expect- 
ed to catch a glimpse of something lost 
in the thickening twilight, or was weary 
of the slow-dropping rain which blurred 
what still remained of the darkened land- 
scape. 

“What is the matter?” demanded Ro- 
samond. “Maurice, you make me ner- 
vous. Pray come and sit down.” 

He approached and took a seat be- 
side her, gazing moodily into the leap- 
ing flames of the wood-fire. 

“There !’” exclaimed Rosamond, “the 
same old way ! You behave horribly 
of late. What can be the matter with 
you?” 

“My dear Rosamond, I am a rough- 


130 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


hewn man. I have the manners of a 
bear.” 

‘‘Nonsense, Maurice ! I am only anx- 
ious about your health.” 

“ Dear friend, my health is perfect : I 
was never better in all my life.” 

“ But you seem so gloomy, so preoccu- 
pied !” 

Maurice sprang up with a gesture of 
impatience. ‘‘When we are married,” 
said he with a short laugh, laying both 
hands on Miss Clifford’s shoulders — 
“ when we are married I shall allow you 
absolute freedom, and reserve but one 
privilege for myself; and that is that I 
may grin like a clown, sigh like Hamlet 
or frown like Jove without your making 
any comments upon my personal eccen- 
tricities. I am sorry I do not please you.” 

Rosamond leaned her cheek upon his 
hand with a mute caress, which was with 
her an unwonted demonstration of fond- 
ness. “ But, dear Maurice,” she returned 
softly, ‘‘you don’t seem happy. I want 
you to feel satisfied with your life. What 
fails you ? It appears to me that you have 
everything a man’s heart can desire. Tell 
me what you were thinking about when 
I came into the room.” And she looked 
up into his face with a smiling but keen 
glance. 

He answered her smile, yet his heart 
was bitter. As he paced those long 
rooms his mind had been alive with 
memories, and, despite all his trained 
self - control, stirred with feverish re- 
grets, unequaled both in sweetness and 
in pain, for that last cup of promise in 
which had sparkled for him all the rap- 
ture of youth. He had remembered the 
summer days in Saintford, and then, his 
present staring him in the face in dull 
contrast, he had realized afresh how ir- 
remediable was his loss— how in resign- 
ing Felise he had given up all his youth. 
Sometimes since they had parted, only 
four weeks before, he had remembered 
her without this imperious but impotent 
passion of regret. To-night her voice 
seemed to have addressed him once 
more from across the river which sepa- 
rated them so widely, and those last faint 
tones of renunciation had smote afresh 
all the chords of his heart, making his 


sorrow almost too painful and crushing 
to be borne. 

‘‘I was thinking,” he said calmly, an- 
swering Rosamond’s question, ‘‘of many 
things. I have had a letter from Frank : 
he is again in Saintford. I can tell you 
plenty of news. Aunt Agnes and Violet 
sailed last Saturday for Liverpool : the 
wedding is fixed for the twentieth of 
October.” 

“ But I knew all that before.” 

“ One never knows anything for certain 
where Violet Meredith is concerned, but 
in this case it does seem probable that 
affairs will develop favorably, and that 
in three weeks’ time she will become 
Mrs. Leslie Wilmot. There is another 
piece of gossip, which, read between 
the lines, makes it belong properly to 
the announcement concerning my cou- 
sin, rather than a spontaneous and self- 
existing fact by itself.” 

‘‘And what is that ?” 

‘‘Morton is to marry Mrs. Dury.” 

“ How very odd!” 

‘‘Odd? Not at all. If you 'draw a 
pendulum as far as you can to the right, 
when it swings back it will go the same 
distance to the left. Violet had so com- 
pletely upset the poor fellow, I should 
have been surprised only at hearing 
that he had without a struggle subsided 
into an ignoble existence. Still, looked 
at with certain of the summer reminis- 
cences fresh in my mind, his engage- 
ment is, as Aunt Agnes would say, ‘ very 
droll.’ ” 

‘‘But then an engagement is always 
rather ridiculous,” observed Rosamond 
comfortably. “ I really cannot see that 
it is any more ridiculous for Mr. Morton 
to be engaged to the widow than for — ” 

‘‘You to be engaged to me, for in- 
stance,” struck in Maurice. ‘‘You know 
very well I regard our position as very 
ridiculous, and advise you to end it as 
soon as possible. But I have not yet 
exhausted my budget.” He looked into 
her face and smiled. ‘‘Frank is engaged 
to Miss Clairmont,” said he in a low voice. 
“ Is not that good news ?” 

Rosamond flushed ever so slightly. 
‘‘When did it happen?” she asked with 
some visible constraint in her manner. 


LOVE IN IDLENESS. 


“Two weeks ago,” Maurice returned | 
with a tranquil smile and an easy air. 
“They kept their news until Felise was 
at home again.” 

Rosamond’s face had cleared, and she 
put her hand in Maurice’s. “ I am glad 
to hear it,” she said kindly. “You have 
been anxious that Frank should be hap- 
py : I congratulate you sincerely.” 

He was silent a moment, and when 
he spoke again had mastered a certain 
weakness. Disappointments had not, 
after all, unnerved his spirit : perhaps in 
measuring himself against the demands 
of life he had gained something in the 
place of that which he had lost. With 
noble minds loss means retrieval. 

“Frank writes me unrestrainedly,” he 
observed at length. “ If a man were ever 
more happy than he is at present, he nev- 


131 

| er came within my experience. His is 
no useless love, which must burn itself 
out or seek fresh excitements with an 
ever-hungry heart : his life is not broken 
up into meaningless fragments ; his pow- 
ers have been latent, but have been de- 
veloping nevertheless. I fancy this for- 
tunate marriage will find them their long- 
waited opportunity.” 

Rosamond had not followed Maurice’s 
rambling speech : her mind had sudden- 
ly become calm. Let us not conceal the 
truth. Without any positive knowledge, 
the thought of Felise had caused her 
some suffering, but as Frank’s wife the 
young girl was quite disarmed. 

Maurice sighed a little now and then 
through the evening, but did not let dis- 
quietude again lay hold of him. 



• • . / 








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ZPOIPTrL-A-IR. IsTO^rZEXjS 

PUBLISHED BY 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., PHILADELPHIA. 


THE WORKS OF E. MARLITT. 


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